When Oblivion is Calling Out Your Name
by SUPRNTRAL LVR
Summary: Basically a fanfiction of Krya4's stories on here, since she's so good at writing Jane/Gunther angst. This time it's Gunther who's wounded and Jane who has to fight to save him and herself from oblivion. Set in the future when Jane and Gunther are adults and the kingdom is at war.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Jane and the Dragon.**

**WARNING: Contains blood and violence, possibly some bad language.**

**Note: This is basically a fanfiction of Krya4's fanfictions. I love the way she brings the story into adulthood and thought I'd have a go at something similar. As a result this story is practically hers, only with the roles of Jane and Gunther reversed. Krya4 - you're awesome, please keep writing!**

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Sword smashed against sword, and it took all of Gunther's strength to hold his ground against the weight of the man towering over him. He stood firm, flickering between his options, and then abruptly allowed his arm to give way and jerked backwards. The man stumbled forwards as he slipped out of the way and whipped his sword up. Scarlet blood flew and the man fell. He found himself in a brief lull amongst the fray and took the opportunity to look around, searching for familiar faces. Some distance away he could see Jane – not, as usual, due to her flaming red hair, which was covered now by a bronze helmet, but rather due to her rapid footwork. He may still best her in archery and brute force, but he never had been able to match her in agility. She was skipping clear of each blow that came her way, her sword flashing, her face tense with concentration. A strand of her hair had come loose and followed a little behind her with every move she made. She was coping well, but the enemy soldiers were closing in around her as her identity became more obvious – no doubt they had heard of the Lady Knight of Kippernia, and hoped to test her mettle. He flinched backwards as a sword appeared in his periphery, swearing aloud for his lapse in concentration. If Sir Ivon had seen that, he would have been on the dung jobs for a week.

He parried the attack and ducked under the oncoming arm of his opponent, delivered a short, hard kick to the man's stomach. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, saw the group of men closing in around Jane, blocking her from view… He turned towards her but, again, he was deterred, this time by two soldiers at once. He was forced backwards, staggering over bodies on the ground, desperately trying to make an attack among his defensive blocks. He barely had a chance – if anything, their numbers seemed to be increasing. They were, as Jane had reported, hideously outnumbered.

She had flown in on the back of her giant lizard only a few days ago with news of the approaching army. It had not been all that much of a surprise – over the past two years a few smaller villages beyond the kingdom's reach had fallen prey to a steadily advancing enemy, and King Caradoc and Sir Theodore seemed to have almost expected the news. The announcement had been made that very evening: the kingdom was at war. Every man would be required to take up arms and move out in a single day's time.

It had been equally exhilarating and terrifying.

Thrilling because all those long years of training were about to be put into practise, and because aside from a few smaller planned attacks and the occasional pack of bandits to despatch, Gunther had still not fought in battle. Terrifying because… well. Because.

They had moved out to meet the enemy, setting up camp some distance from the kingdom to give time for the people to evacuate should their efforts be in vain. Because of the sheer size of the army they had to face they had been forced to recruit every able-bodied man in the village. Which meant that Gunther had spent the last three days at the camp trying to teach people who had never even seen a sword before what he himself had learned in eight years. He had tried. As the King's Knights, second to Sir Ivon and the now-retired Sir Theodore, he and Jane had been required to help organise and prepare the men. It had been difficult, infuriating – farmers could not fight any more than schoolboys. But they had the basics – the _very _basics – and he was doing his best to keep his eye on them.

The last night had been spent pouring over a map in Sir Theodore's tent, with Sir Ivon, Jane and the King present. Dragon had poked his head through the tent flaps, his breath sending the map billowing up off the table every now and again and scattering their plans. The conversation had been tenuous, to say the least.

"We cannot divide our forces," Sir Ivon had insisted, stabbing a fat finger at the table. "There are too many of them. By the time we launched our second group's attack our numbers would be too few to cope."

"If we meet them head on, we will be revealing the only hand we have," Sir Theodore replied, his tone slightly calmer. "They will know how much we will struggle. If we could engage them and then circle from the-"

"There will be no time! True, these men are not clever fighters, but there is no need for wits when one has an unmatchable strength."

Gunther said nothing. He did not back either view – both were equally weighted. Instead, he took advantage of the low candlelight and watched her watch the map. Jane's brow was lined with fierce contemplation, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip, her arms folded tightly. He could almost see plans racing through her head like fireflies across the sky. She would not speak until she was sure, but he knew that she had already formed something better than the two older men. She was waiting for her moment to speak, tactful, sensitive. The King's sigh drew his eye away.

"We have no more time for discussions. We must decide tonight, one evil or another."

Gunther straightened, drawing their attention towards himself. After so many years at her side, he knew exactly what would coax her to speak. She had the answer, he could tell from the gleam in her serious green eyes. He arched an eyebrow as she lifted her gaze to meet his, twisted his lips into a slight smirk.

"Perhaps we should just flip a coin. We seem to be stuck between a rock and a hard place – there is _no other _option possible for us to consider. It hardly seems to matter which plan we choose at this stage."

Sir Ivon cast his eyes skywards in despair. Although a talented fighter, Gunther had to pity his mentor at times. The huge man did not seem to understand the importance of saying just what you didn't mean to get what you wanted. To him, everything was taken at face value. Sir Theodore was not so superficial, smiling slightly, and for a moment Gunther thought he was going to give him away. But then Jane's eyebrows were arching sharply downwards, her hands flying to her hips, her head cocking slightly to one side.

"Of course, _Gunther, _what could it matter? It is only a _war, _after all." She stepped up to the table, glancing at Sir Theodore as if for permission. "I have a suggestion."

"Oh yes?" Gunther leaned back against one of the thick posts holding up the tent, turning his attention to wiping a speck of dirt from his sword hilt. "Spit it out, then."

He could feel her glaring at him and swallowed back a laugh. She spread her hands over the map, scrutinizing the area one last time before drawing breath to speak.

"They must have heard about Dragon – his presence here is no secret. But I feel that this is all the more reason to keep him away from the fight for as long as possible. They will be waiting for him, and his absence will make them nervous. Their attention will not be on the fight at hand, giving us the upper hand."

Sir Theodore was nodding. "Go on."

She pushed her hair back with one hand. It snatched at the candlelight like fire, tangled against her slender fingers. Her tongue appeared briefly between her teeth before she lowered her hand once more, pointed to a set of low hills off to one side.

"Early tomorrow, before light, we take a third of our army to this spot-"

"A _third?" _Sir Ivon spluttered.

Gunther shot him an icy look but Sir Theodore was already raising a hand to him, indicating with a nod that Jane should continue. She nodded steadily, returning his gaze.

"It must be a third. Any less would be of no use, and any more would be too conspicuous. They will hide there until the battle begins. This group must be mostly knights. And then we will lead the rest against the enemy _here_, out in the open."

"And then?" Gunther nudged.

She scowled at him. "And _then, _once we have fully engaged the enemy, we bring in the smaller group from _behind. _Waiting for Dragon to appear, they will be caught off guard and believe he will be with them. And once they have rallied whatever forces they can spare from fighting with our main group, and they are ready to engage with this second group, Dragon will come in from the _side. _If they are as stupid as you say, Sir Ivon, they will find themselves suddenly surrounded and panic. Their instructions will be confused, their organisation poor, and they will fail."

She finished in one breath and stopped quickly, gazing around at them all with a flicker of triumph. She knew she had won. She looked at him across the table smugly as Sir Theodore began to nod, daring him to disagree. He gave a small shake of his head, just to infuriate her a little.

"Champion," he murmured.

Jane's face cleared slightly in surprise, but Sir Theodore was already speaking.

"It is the best plan we have. We can only hope that our main body of foot soldiers do not lose too many lives acting as bait."

King Caradoc had agreed, and the plan had been settled. The next morning, Sir Ivon would lead the small group around to the hills to lie in wait for their moment. Jane and Gunther would lead the main body of soldiers. Dragon would wait above cloud level for Jane's signal. Sir Theodore would escort the King back to the castle to safety that night before returning to run the camp, and wait for the news of the outcome.

They left the tent slowly, Gunther emerging last. Jane strode away into the night, Dragon padding beside her, her bright hair swinging behind her in an unruly mane. He watched her go, drank in her fast, determined pace and her straight back, her copper waves of brightness. He did not notice that Sir Theodore had waited to speak with him until it was too late, and he had already been caught staring. He schooled his features into emptiness, stepping forwards to meet his mentor.

"You should make your own suggestions, Sir Gunther, rather than simply provoking hers," the older Knight admonished quietly. "Your ideas have just as much right to be heard."

"If I had any, I would make them," he replied coolly. "Truly, Sir Theodore, I could not choose between yours and Ivon's approaches. Jane is, as usual, only too eager to contribute."

Sir Theodore's lined face creased into a smile, and for a moment Gunther felt distinctly uncomfortable, as if he had somehow been unmasked. He cleared his throat, made a quick salute.

"I should see to the men," he said, moving away. "They will, no doubt, be nervous."

"Do not hesitate tomorrow," Sir Theodore warned. "They will look to you both to lift their spirits and their swords."

He had ducked his head and excused himself. When the morning had come, and with it an army to face, he had found himself strangely… anxious. He and Jane had led the main body of soldiers forth until the horizon became dark with shields, and the approaching army had come into view. Signalling for their forces to halt, the two of them had ridden out to meet the other side's messengers. Their enemy had sent two of its own members – both large and smeared with war-paint and dirt.

"King Caradoc wishes to offer you a final opportunity for peace," Jane had called out as they approached. Gunther could feel her words reverberating within his chest, her clear, high voice breaking over him and stilling the panic in his stomach. "We have no desire for war. Draw back now, or we will both feel a loss."

"Feel this!" one of the men had roared, rising in his saddle and jerking his hips forwards.

Gunther felt his lip curl and nudged his horse forwards, drawing his sword. "Make your answer," he said. "And make it quickly."

"We do not fear King Caradoc's army of whores," the other man had said, looking Jane up and down. "Retreat or fight – it makes no difference to us. This soil is ours now."

The other man had moved his horse forwards, as if to advance on them, and Gunther raised his sword. He heard Jane hiss his name, but he did not care. He did not care if there were not supposed to be weapons drawn during negotiations. His eyes were on the piece of scum currently leering at Jane, his tongue sliding over his lips, his face horribly… _possessive. _Gunther pointed his sword in the man's direction, finally drawing his gaze away from Jane's chest. His words dropped from his lips like hail stones.

"One step closer, and this battle begins with your blood."

The man had laughed, but then turned his horse sharply away and began the gallop back to his own side, followed closely by his comrade. Gunther waited until they were a good few feet away before lowering his sword and tugging his horse around. Jane was livid, her lips trembling with fury as they rode back.

"How _dare _you, Gunther Breech, how dare you _champion _me like some _maiden, _ruining any chance of-"

"Come off it, they were never going to negotiate on friendly terms," he retorted. "They were pigs."

_"You _are a pig."

"Oh, you can talk, frog-rider."

They had reached their forces, and Jane was forced to let it go. Together they turned, and she sent up the battle cry. He had taken the opportunity to collect himself, grip his sword, steady his nerves. As they readied for the plunge, he let himself throw caution to the winds, just for once, just in case this was the last time… He reached out, settled his hand on her arm. She looked at him in alarm, incredulous, scowling, her green eyes narrowed to slits, her jaw clenched. He felt himself smiling.

"Fight well," he said, unable to think of anything better.

She blinked at him, and then nodded. "You too."

And then they had been roaring, thundering forwards, and his horse had not lasted five minutes in the fray.

Now, he finally drove off one of the two men that were bearing down on him and slit the throat of one, spinning to sink his sword into the side of the other as he recovered. He pulled free even as the battle cry went up through the air – the second attack. He felt a rush of dizzy relief – he did not know how long they had been fighting, but it had been too long, and their numbers were decreasing numbers. He could see bodies on the ground, far more of their own than of their enemies. Blood soaked the soil.

Just as Jane had predicted, the cry rallied the opposing forces and the crowd thinned almost at once, rushing to meet the others. Gunther launched himself after one of the soldiers, slammed the hilt of his sword down on his helmet. The man span around dizzily and then dropped to the floor, stunned. Gunther pressed on, cutting down another of the enemy trying to sprint past him, felt his sword hit bone.

"Cover! _Take cover!"_

The shout went up as he straightened. He was about to duck when a heavy mass slammed into him head-on, sent him stumbling. He drove his sword down into the man's back, pulled free as the body slumped against him, aware of a shrill whistling in his ears – and something drove into him with the force of a pick-axe through rock. He heard himself gasp, felt a sharp, stinging pain. The shock sent him to his knees, even as his hand groped for the arrow shaft sticking out of his shoulder. He stared at the feathered end in surprise, struggling to draw a breath.

_They have archers._

Blind panic surged through him. Their enemy had been more organised than they had expected. He struggled to his feet, cried out in pain as someone rushed at him. He clumsily parried them – luckily, the arrow had not struck his sword arm. But the man clipped it as he dropped to the ground, and pain screamed through Gunther's blood like poison. He forced himself to breathe, to remember his training…

_Do not take it out._

He knew that much, at least. He braced one hand against it and, with a shuddering gasp, managed to break off the feathered end. Now only a short length of the shaft emerged from his shoulder, not enough to get in his way as he fought. He dragged his thoughts away from it, panting, thinking of the battle… If the other side had archers waiting far from the field, they would not last another hour longer… He took a step forwards, uncertain of where he was going, his brain racing…

A shrill, piercing whirring reached his ears, and he felt his limbs sag with relief. _Dragon. _He searched for Jane, but he could not see her. But she must be alright, because she was using the sword to summon her beast. That certainly meant that she must be alive, did it not? He turned on his heel, made for a nearby soldier, slammed his sword into the rusted metal that was thrust before him. He had almost forgotten about the arrow already – the adrenaline was driving him onwards. A distant roar lifted over the sound of the battle, and he could almost see the fire, sense the heat. He felt an air of panic descending on the battlefield and smiled grimly. They still had a chance, it seemed.

Beneath the ear-shattering volume of Dragon's war cry, someone was calling for help. He could hear the voice somewhere close by, dwarfed by the roar of the flames coming from the other side of the battlefield.

He threw down his last opponent, his injured arm shaking slightly, and squinted across the carnage. He found himself towards the back of the action – most of the enemy had run to face the small group that had attacked from behind, thinning out much of the fray. But those who had remained were still fighting in full force, and the dwindling numbers of the first group were struggling. He could see such an example of a poorly trained, barely prepared man fending off a group of enemy soldiers not so far away from him. The man was dancing from foot to foot in a strange, panicky way, his blows causing minimal damage, his speed of movement the only thing keeping him safe from his attackers. They were closing in on him rapidly, and he was shouting shrilly for help like a lamb beset by wolves…

And of course, it would be Jester.

Without the hat he looked shorter. Gunther gritted his teeth and pushed himself into a sprint, reaching them as one of the soldiers moved around behind his prey and lifted an axe.

"Move!"

Jester span around and ducked as Gunther delivered his blow – his sword sliced through the enemy soldier's gut. He leaped over the buckling figure, pushed Jester behind him with one arm, wincing as his shoulder protested. His sword met the force of the nearest man and he struggled to regain steady footing.

"Remember, Jester, you are being attacked from _all sides,_" he grunted, lashing out with his leg. His booted foot connected with the man's knee and in seconds he had the upper hand, bringing his sword down on his neck. "Your enemy is not so polite as to introduce himself first!"

Jester said nothing, his tight breathing enough to explain that he was already engaged in combat. But his fear was making him clumsy – from the corner of his eye, Gunther saw him drop under a heavy swipe and lose his balance, falling heavily onto his side. He jerked backwards, fending off the man before him with a wide swipe, and span around to send his sword through the belly of the man advancing on the juggler. More soldiers seemed to be coming, as if sensing their struggle, aware that their opponents were weak. He counted four, five… _Gods, _he could not take them all on his own, not whilst defending Jester at the same time.

_Jane will never forgive me if I let him die._

The thought sped him forwards with added strength, and he sent a man's head flying from its shoulders with a jerk of his arm. He stepped forwards, pushing the rest back as they fanned out around him, swords raised, hesitating, apparently trying to decide how best to overrun him. He could hear his own blood roaring in his ears. He felt a hand close over his arm and it took a great deal of effort not to instinctively whirl around and stab – instead, he shook it off gently.

"Come on, Jester," he muttered under his breath. "A captive audience, as you like."

He heard a high-pitched, slightly hysterical laugh behind him. One of the enemy soldiers chose that moment to advance and Gunther leapt forwards to meet him, clashed against his sword, twisted it from his grip, sliced off the offending arm. He side-stepped his next attacker, parried him, sensed another coming in from his right… He span away, made a quick, low swipe, felt his blade tearing through skin. A glance over his shoulder told him that Jester was coping well, but not well enough – he threw himself into the path of an axe aimed at the juggler's neck, managed to deflect it, thrust his sword forwards into the neck of the man. Even as he began to turn back he knew he had cost himself too much time – never turn your back on your opponent was one of the first rules of hand to hand combat.

Even as he whirled about to face his enemy once more something hard clipped his face. He had left one man unchecked in order to get to Jester in time, and he instantly felt the gravity of his mistake. Stars punched into his vision and he shook himself, staggering, blinking desperately, keeping his sword before him. Half-blind, he just about noticed a flash of metal coming towards him and parried it off, but his arm was unsteady, dark spots flickering before him – his arm was knocked aside, a hand came down on his injured shoulder. Even as he lifted his sword something speared into him, tore through him like a fish hook, freezing his breath in his lungs. It ripped free almost as fast and, as he took a breath, fire exploded over him. He heard himself make a strange, unfamiliar noise. His hand moved automatically to his side and felt hot, sticky warmth flowing through his fingers like a river, like molten lava… He was dimly aware of a figure in front of him lifting its weapon for another attack and, summoning everything he had, flicked his sword upwards. He heard the scream and knew his weapon had found its mark. It pulled free of his hand as it met flesh, but he did not care.

Besides, he was beginning to feel really quite horrible. His head was light and airy, and he still could not quite see due to the damn shutter-vision the blow to his head had caused. His knees were suddenly refusing to hold him up, crumpling like paper. His body dropped backwards, even as he screamed at it to obey him, and he came up against someone's back.

"Wha… _Gunther! _Oh no…"

The someone, to his relief, did not seem to want to kill him. Thin hands were lowering him to the ground, and then the touch vanished abruptly. He could hear clashing metal above his head. Blinking viciously, he finally regained his sight. He was on his side on the ground, his own breathing heavy in his ears, swords flying above his head. He made out Jester, whose face was suddenly bloodless with sheer terror. The fear seemed to be helping – he was attacking more, striking out at his opponent. Gunther tried to rise, sliding up onto one elbow, but agony erupted in his side and he felt himself crumple like a straw toy. God, he hoped it was not he that was making those pathetic, moaning noises. He forced his hand down to his side. His tunic was _soaked. _Soaked with something warm.

"Ah."

He was surprised to find he had spoken aloud. Trying to use his good arm, he manoeuvred himself onto his back, biting back a scream. He found himself settling against something hard, enabling him to lean, slightly upright. He wondered dimly if it was the man who had stabbed him, and savagely hoped that it was.

"Gunther! Are you alright?"

Jester. He squeezed his eyes shut, placed his hand over his side. _Apply pressure. Do not let the blood flow out._ It hurt more than anything in his life, more than the time his father had shoved him down the stairs in their house and broken his rib. At the time, he had thought that was the worst pain he could ever feel. He was sorely mistaken. He could feel himself breathing fast and shallow, tried to address the issue, but his head was pulling away from his body like a balloon and he couldn't quite think straight…

"Yes," he said at last. "I'm alright."

"Hold on! It's… Just hold on, I'll be right there, as soon as I can…"

Gunther's eyes were having difficulty remaining open. How inconvenient. He pressed down hard on his wound, muffled a cry, forced them open. He could not die, not now. The battle was not over. There was still the possibility that she would need him…

"Can you see Jane?"

His voice sounded very far away. He listened to the raging battle, waited, squinting through cracked eyes at the rapid motion around him.

"No," came the faint response.

There was nothing for it, then. He would have to remain alive, if only until he knew for sure that she had survived. No doubt she would have – Dragon would have protected her, surely. He let his head fall back against the object he was leaning against, caught a glimpse of the clear blue sky stretching on and on forever above them, waited for his vision to snag on the flash of bright ginger hair that would put his mind to rest.

**Hope you enjoyed, see you next time.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Jane and the Dragon.**

**WARNING: Contains blood and violence, possibly some bad language.**

**Note: This is basically a fanfiction of Krya4's fanfictions. I love the way she brings the story into adulthood and thought I'd have a go at something similar. As a result this story is practically hers, only with the roles of Jane and Gunther reversed. Krya4 - you're awesome, please keep writing!**

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Jane dragged a hand across her forehead, sweat and blood mingling in a salty smear on her skin. Her legs were trembling and her sword arm ached like hell, but the day had been won. The field was theirs, and for now the kingdom was safe. Shielding her eyes from the late afternoon winter sun, she smiled and lifted her sword in a wide arc. A huge shadow crossed over her. Dragon had changed as much as she in the past seven years - his features had hardened, his scales darkened to a deeper shade of emerald, and there was a new leanness to his limbs. Like she herself, he seemed to be entering adulthood. She often forgot how young he was in Dragon years - despite being around 300 years old, he was still an adolescent in his own kind's terms. Now, he wheeled once more to show that he understood her sign and soared away after the retreating backs of their enemies. He would chase them a good few miles beyond the boarders of the kingdom, as agreed, and then return to report on their new whereabouts. Their ranks had been sorely shaken, and Jane doubted that they would return for some time.

She studied his huge wings for a while as his shape grew smaller, lit occasionally with bursts of flame. She had noticed a small tear in one wing, probably caused by an arrow, but he didn't seem to have noticed it. The volley of missiles had appeared out of nowhere, threatening to overwhelm them, but to her relief Dragon had plummeted out of the sky with a blaze of fiery fury, and the archers had not been able to make a second attack. His scales had protected him for the most part, although she was also aware of a few scratches across his neck. But his movements were fluid and fast - he seemed alright.

With some effort she pulled her gaze away from him, praying silently for his safe return. As her eye skimmed the battlefield she was struck by the number of her own people lying slain on the ground. Although there were many still standing - they had fared much better than their enemy by the end - they had suffered a blow. There would be funeral fires tonight, and the songs of her people would fill the night air as families and friends stood vigil. She spotted Sir Ivon nearby, ordering runners to return to their camp nearby for stretchers for the wounded.

"Ah, lass!" he cried as she drew near, throwing out an arm to her. His face was old and his hair greying, but a large grin met her as she reached out to clasp his arm in return. "A fine battle, Lady Jane, and all down to your quick thinking! Kippernia is most lucky to have such a worthy knight fighting for her."

Jane smiled tiredly back at him, returning her sword heavily to its sheath. She rubbed her arm, rolled her shoulder slowly. She felt ready for her bed, but there was work to be done yet.

"Thank you, Sir," she returned. "How can I help? Dragon is seeing off the enemy, as we arranged."

Ivon nodded, already busy scanning the horizon. "See to the ranks," he ordered, waving a hand at the field. "Rally them to help the wounded and begin our return. They will be tired, but we are not at rest yet."

She turned in the direction he had indicated, making her way across the battlefield. Some of the knights had come together in small groups; many of the younger men, some no more than squires, had taken the victory as a chance to sit down. She urged them up once more, gesturing to the fallen around them.

"Let no man go unchecked," she warned as they heaved themselves to their feet. "Imagine if it were you. If you can find no one, return to camp to help there."

Some of the men still acted strangely around her, particularly when she was required to give them orders. As a knight of the King's Guard, and as one of Sir Theodore's protégés, she was awarded a higher status than the foot soldiers. They never ignored her commands, but they rarely met her gaze, and her inquiries would often be met with mumbling and shrugs. She was still working on the relationship she held with them - perhaps their recent victory would stand her in better regard.

She pulled off her helmet as they left, her hair damp with sweat. Her very scalp seemed to sigh as she dragged her fingers through her frizzy red mane, attempting to pull it into some kind of order, enjoying the freedom after the fight. As she continued to search the field for soldiers, her step slow, her mind blissfully blank, she became slowly aware of a familiar voice calling her name.

"Jane! _Jane!"_

Calling seemed too calm a word to describe the voice - screaming seemed more accurate. Frowning, she turned in a full circle in search of the owner, her hand suddenly going to her sword once more. She sensed some kind of trouble...

"Jane!"

She whipped around, relaxing her arm in relief as she caught sight of Smithy sprinting towards her. A quick assessment of his appearance told her, to her relief, that he was not wounded. Covered in dust and scratches, perhaps, but relatively unharmed despite the agitation etched over his face.

"Smithy, what-"

"You must come with me, at once," he interrupted, breathless from the run, his face twisted with concern. "This way."

He seized her wrist and began dragging her across the battlefield. She staggered over the uneven ground, caught off-guard by the sudden departure.

"What has happened?" As soon as she asked the question she knew - someone had been hurt. Or worse. Her mind flew at once to their friends that would have struggled with the fight. "Is it Rake? Is Jester alright? Smithy, tell me!"

"They are alright," Smithy replied tightly, so intent on keeping up the pace that she could almost believe that he was about to pull off her arm.

She opened her mouth to demand details, and then had the breath knocked out of her as Smithy began to slow down. Her eyes fixed on Jester, almost unrecognisable without his blue hat. He was crouching over something, red staining his arms. His face was white with panic, his lips tightly pressed together, his eyes wide. Her first thought was Rake, until she caught sight of him some distance away in a heated discussion with a group of soldiers busy with lifting a body onto a stretcher. The something Jester was fussing over was leaning back against a shield, unmoving. She caught sight of jet-black hair and froze.

"_Gunther."_

She hadn't realised she had spoken until Smithy turned to face her, his eyes dark. He tugged at her arm, pulling her onwards more gently.

"We didn't know what to do, Jane. Our battlefield skills are... limited, to say the least."

She forced her legs to move, unable to pull her eyes away. He was slumped down against a shield, his head leaning back against it, his eyes closed tightly. His face was disturbingly ashen, and he did not seem to be responding to anything Jester was muttering to him. As they drew nearer she dropped Smithy's hand and dashed forwards, her heart leaping into her throat as she took in just how much blood there was. It covered his side, soaked into one leg, dampened the dirt ground where he lay.

"Oh god, oh _god..."_

"Jane!" Jester's voice was weak with relief. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Jane, it was all my fault-"

His words broke over her in a wave. He may as well have been speaking another language. Her gaze was riveted on Jester's hands, now bright red in colour, both desperately fumbling over a wound in Gunther's side. Once again she cursed their limited resources - when the townspeople had been brought in to fight some of the more qualified knights had given up their armour for those in need. She and Gunther had been in their numbers.

"Do not worry, Jane," he had muttered as they added their chainmail to the pile. "Only _talented _knights need give up their armour."

"Feel free to throw your helmet in too," she had hissed back, pushing past him with a smirk. "When one lacks a brain, there is no need for it."

And they had laughed. _Laughed _over it. And now she was staring down at him, at the blood, at his hand trembling lightly near Jester's, as if it had been recently pushed aside. He was not attempting to help stay the bleeding. She looked up at him. He seemed to be breathing, if with some difficulty, his lips parted. Something caught the periphery of her gaze and she looked down to find the broken shaft of an arrow embedded in his shoulder. Following their training, he had broken off the feathered end and made no effort to remove it. She leaned closer to it, parting his leather jerkin with her fingertips for a better look. It did not appear to be bleeding much, but she was unable to determine if the tip had been barbed or not. Certainly the larger wound in his side was more of a concern.

"He said to find you," Smithy said from above them. "Jane, what can we do?"

She shook herself, furious for revelling in her own shock for so long. They had to move fast. From the amount of blood on the ground and on Jester, it seemed that Gunther had been bleeding for some time. The battle itself had waged on for hours – surely he could not have been lying there in the ground for its duration? They had to get him back to the camp. She wished desperately that she had not sent Dragon away, considered calling him back – he could have carried them there in a heartbeat – but he was needed to ensure the other side's retreat. Lurching into action, she pushed Jester's shaking hands away and pointed at a nearby flag.

"Cut that down," she said, her voice sharp with panic. "Be quick. Smithy, find a stretcher."

"Rake went to look," Smithy replied. "He has not had much luck. I'll try."

She shifted closer as they disappeared from her side. She clamped her hand down on the wound with more force than Jester had managed, earning a moan from her patient. Her stomach jerked and she glanced up to find his eyes open. His jaw was clenched tightly, his nostrils flaring as he tried to breathe. She could almost see Sir Theordore's lessons racing through his mind - _breathe as deeply and evenly as possible, maintain consciousness, count to four on each exhale and each inhale..._

"Jane."

To horror, she felt her eyes sting with the threat of tears. His voice sounded so wrong. Usually it was piercing, sneering, clear - now it was hoarse and forced. He was staring at her through half-lidded eyes, a strange, grim smile twisting at the corner of his mouth. She made herself smile, arched her eyebrow in a challenge.

"What were you saying before about only _talented _knights giving up their armour?"

"I had to train with you, didn't I?" he retorted softly. "Clearly I'm too used to your inferior tactics… Congratulations."

She peeked at the wound. It gaped up at her – it was deep. Too deep. She swallowed her panic, covering it once more. "What?"

"On the battle. I assume your plan worked… are you unhurt?"

"No, couldn't you tell? I'm missing an arm."

She was trying to sound sarcastic but her voice was shaking too much for her to pull it off. And his gaze was boring into her, unmasking her, pointing out her fear for all the world to see. She realised her grip was loosening – she pressed down hard. His body shook beneath her and his breathing hitched sharply. She could barely stand to look him in the eye, unable to fathom how much pain he must be in.

"Sorry, sorry. Keep breathing, Gunther, don't forget-"

"I know," he ground out. "So… bossy."

She looked over her shoulder, searching for Jester. What was taking him so long? He had got the flag down and was sawing it desperately free from its rope. She needed the material now – her hands were letting blood run no matter how she tried. There was so, so much of it. She felt her lip tremble threateningly and forced her face into a frown, refusing to let herself crumble. She couldn't let him know how bad it was, even though she had a horrible feeling that he knew.

"Jane… Jane, listen…"

She raised her head. His face was suddenly tight with feeling, his eyebrows pulled together, words halting on his tongue. It was as if a mask that had become so familiar to them both over the years had suddenly fallen away and everything was suddenly open to the sun. Something of great importance was about to be said, but he couldn't seem to begin. His breathing stuttered, his lips moved, his eyes clenched over her even as they began to take on a strange, glazed quality. She felt a cool touch, recognised it as his fingers coming to rest against her wrist, lightly, as if he expected his hand to go straight through her.

"Jane," he repeated, and then abruptly fastened his lips closed.

_What? _She wanted to scream, _What? _But he was pulling back from the edge, his face darkening with defeat. She opened her mouth, but then Jester was thundering down beside them with the flag. She heard her own voice telling him to rip it into strips and hand her some, even though she was sure she hadn't a coherent thought in her head, her eyes never breaking contact with Gunther's. He was staring over her shoulder now, into the darkening sky. She grabbed the bundle Jester passed her and pressed it over the bloody mouth grinning under her hands. Gunther made a small sound in the back of his throat that tore at her like barbed wire.

"There are not enough lifters for the wounded," Jester was saying, fumbling over his words. "Men are running to the camp for more but…"

She shook her head to silence him, reached for the strips of fabric in his arms. Leaning forwards, she passed her arms around Gunther's middle and tied the strip off, slipping another folded pad beneath it before tightening it. She had been bracing herself for a scream, but she only heard silence. She would have preferred the scream. She looked up, felt her heart fall away as she saw Gunther's eyes closing.

"No! Gunther, don't you dare!" she leaned over him, tapping his cheek tersely. "Don't _do _this, you cannot leave me like- _Gunther –"_

She broke off, stunned, unsure of where the heated words had come from. She hadn't meant for her voice to break like that, she didn't… She wasn't sure what she meant. Her lungs could not find air. She wriggled forwards, almost on top of him in panic, shook him violently. As she jostled him he opened his eyes at last, his stare foggy and unfocussed, and his voice whispered against her. It was light, quiet, not quite conscious.

"M'here…"

"No, you're trying to sleep. You're staying with me, do you hear?"

"If I could choose," he mumbled through her hair, "I would never leave your side."

She felt as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown over her. She didn't move, the words rushing through her head again and again. She heard him take a shuddery breath.

"Can't see," he said softly, almost sadly, as if he had planned to go for a horse ride and discovered that it was raining.

Something within her shattered. She felt a sob pulse through her and swallowed hard, scrambling to collect her resolve. His shallow breaths filled her ears. She dragged her gaze away from his terrible, absent eyes and looked over her shoulder. She had a terrible feeling that he had been waiting to tell her something, and now that he had been unable to he was going to… to _leave. _She kept her grip on his uninjured shoulder uncomfortably tight, scanning the battlefield for the others.

"Smithy! _Rake!"_

There was a horse. A horse standing a few feet away, snuffling at the ground, lost without its rider, waiting for instruction. It was not wearing the colours of their enemies – it must be one of theirs. She jerked her head at it, desperate.

"Jester, get that horse. Go, go!"

Jester scrambled up, jolted out of his frozen silence, and ran off. She tied another strip of cloth around Gunther's middle, snatched briefly for his hand in an attempt to anchor him in reality. It twitched in response, curled over her fingers.

"Hold on," she said, not quite sure if she was speaking to him or to herself. "Hold on, we're going, we're going now. It'll be alright."

She shook him once more, a little more gently this time, but she could not get him to look at her. His eyes were completely vacant now, lids dropping closed, and all that emotion he had held just a few minutes ago seemed to be running out of him. She touched his face again, brushing his hair back. There was a graze on his temple. She stared at it blankly, tracing its outlines. She knew his body almost better than her own after all those years of training, and yet she had never touched him like this, nor been this close to him. His eyes closed and she shook him again, her panic climbing. He was leaving her.

She would have screamed, but she didn't trust herself not to cry.

And then Jester was there with the horse, and Smithy was returning to them empty-handed, responding to her call. He pulled Gunther upright at her gesture and Jester offered her a leg-up onto the horse. She watched as Smithy and Jester took his weight – his legs weren't working, he was leaning on them heavily, as if he were one of Jester's puppets and his strings had been cut. She reached for him. With some difficulty they lifted him onto the horse in front of her and she stood in the stirrups to settle him in the saddle against her. She wrapped one arm tightly around him, rested his head against her neck. She could feel soft plumes of breath beating against her skin.

Then she was driving her heels in and the horse lurched forwards at a gallop, leaping unevenly across the cluttered battlefield, and she apologised for every impact they made with the ground.

They reached the camp after seconds or minutes or hours, she didn't know, and she called for Theodore as loud as the lump in her throat would let her. Gunther was limp against her, her arm the only thing keeping him from sliding off the saddle. Theodore's greying hair appeared and she understood that he wanted her to pass Gunther down, even though she couldn't unhook her fingers, even though she knew that if she let him go she would never see him again… Her shaking hands were suddenly empty and a small group of men were carrying him away, and Theodore was shouting orders, and then suddenly she was quite alone and silence descended.

**Thanks for reading, reviews are very welcome.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Jane and the Dragon.**

**WARNING: Contains blood and violence, possibly some bad language.**

**Note: This is basically a fanfiction of Krya4's fanfictions. I love the way she brings the story into adulthood and thought I'd have a go at something similar. As a result this story is practically hers, only with the roles of Jane and Gunther reversed. Krya4 - you're awesome, please keep writing!**

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No matter how many times she washed her hands, she felt that she could still smell blood upon them. She could feel it under her nails and in the crevices between her fingers. She had washed the traces of the battle off, but she still felt that her hair smelled of gunpowder. She pushed it out of her face and flexed her hands, trying to convince herself that it was her imagination. It didn't really matter much.

The air felt rigidly silent, and so heavy that she didn't think she would be able to move through it.

She stood in front of her bed, staring down at her sword which still lay where she had left it upon returning. She had sat outside the camp for hours that evening until Dragon had returned, tired and irritable from his long flight. He explained the movements of the enemy army without commenting on the tear tracks on her cheeks, although his eyes moved numerous times to the bloodstains on her front. She absorbed his words blankly, understanding little more than the news that the kingdom was secure, that the night would be calm. Guards would be placed on the land's boarders, but they were merely a precaution. The day had been an overwhelming victory.

Dragon bent his head and she wrapped her arms around his large nose and pressed her face against his warm scales. His breath came in huge gusts against her chest and a gentle growl rumbled somewhere deep in his chest.

"Who fell?"

His question was tentative, unobtrusive, but she did not know how to answer it. Her tongue felt like a piece of lead. She wanted to remain there, engulfed by his familiar scent and his warmth, never to face the world again. But she could feel his concern increasing with every passing second of silence and drew in a breath, gathering her strength.

"Gunther is… was wounded."

Dragon settled on the ground, humming softly in understanding. How did he understand? How did he realise how much her heart was aching? She had never spoken of Gunther much, unless it was to mock him or complain of him. Gunther and Dragon had developed a companionable relationship over the years – their love of ridiculous jokes regarding dung, their shared passion for pranks. She could not have explained her feelings at that moment if she had tried, and yet Dragon seemed to know. His tail curled around them carefully and she closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of fire.

Eventually she had released him. He had offered to talk with her, but she could see how tired he was. She walked with him to the massive tent on the outskirts of the camp, erected specifically for him, and settled down beside him on the straw bedding that had been laid out. She did not know if she slept or not, but his cavernous body and steady breaths comforted her. She traced his scales where she lay against him, let her mind go dark. When daylight began to filter through the flaps of the tent she had risen to her feet in a daze, her limbs stiff, and bid him goodbye.

"Go and find him," Dragon had urged sleepily as she left. "Knowing is better than not-knowing, right?"

He was right. But she had not been brave enough. Instead, she had checked with the night watchman to ensure that Smithy, Rake and Jester had returned safely – the three of them had, apparently, sat up with the celebrating knights for some time before retiring. She had barely been aware of the festivities. Some were only now wandering to their beds, woozy from mead and humming victory songs. She had contemplated visiting them, but it was so early that she could not justify it – the sun was only just rising above the horizon. Instead she had made her slow way back to her own tent and cleaned herself up.

And now, she had nothing left to do but find out.

She left her tent, vaguely aware of the distant voices of the early risers of the camp. Fires were smoking here and there, burned out after a night of joviality. She found herself wondering if Rake had ridden back to the castle that night in order to reunite with Pepper – certainly she would be worried. He did not seem one for the raucous company of the soldiers. Somewhere near, someone was still singing in slurred, mumbling tones. She herself barely felt the victory: for her, it was bittersweet. The singing died away on the wind as she drew closer to the medical tents, aware of different voices carried on the breeze. She stopped outside the large tent, steeling herself. She wanted to be calm, to be untouched by the sight she would see, but her hands were already shaking at her sides. She balled them into fists. She had to be strong, for him if not for herself. She took a deep breath and reached for the canvas flap.

"Lady Jane!"

She flinched violently at the voice, turned. Sir Theodore was coming towards her, lifting a hand in greeting. She tried to smile in response but her lips were stiff.

"Sir Theodore, how are you?"

"Congratulations on the battle, Jane. Your plan was most inspired."

She inclined her head, not trusting herself to speak. Sir Theodore studied her for a few moments before gesturing for her to move, turning them away from the medical tent.

"This way."

"Sir, forgive me, I was hoping to… I was…"

She cursed herself for her stammering, faltering voice. She sounded like a lost child. Sir Theodore nodded calmly, placing a hand on her shoulder to steer her away.

"There was no space left here, Jane. Sir Gunther was taken to Sir Ivon's tent upon his arrival."

She let out a shuddering sigh that she did not know she had been holding in. For one horrible moment she had been sure of the worst. Sir Theodore's steady hand led her through the camp at a slow pace. The grey morning light suited him. Some years ago when he had become too old to continue knightly duties he had stopped wearing his dark armour and instead began to wear tunics designed for heads of state, still maintaining his courtly duties at the castle. He looked softer now, although his tone was still sharp when he passed her in the courtyard – _Back straight! Defensive before offensive!_ She wet her lips cautiously, wanting so much to ask, uncertain as to whether she was ready for what he would say. Before she could muster the courage they had stopped outside Sir Ivon's tent, and Sir Theodore was drawing back the flap and urging her gently through the entrance, and she had no more time to steady herself.

He was alive. She could tell at once from the way his bare chest was shuddering up and down, drawing breath despite the film of clammy sweat that covered his skin, and some of the tightness in her throat eased. The tent was a little larger than her own, with space for a trunk containing some of Sir Ivon's infamous weaponry. It was now being used as a table – it was covered with bloodied bandages, various jars and vials, several mean-looking instruments… On the floor she could see the remains of the flag, now a rusty scarlet. Gunther lay on the single bed, covered to his waist with a sheet. The wound in his side was still a bright, angry red, although it no longer seemed to be leaking blood. Someone had stitched it closed with great precision some time ago – perhaps the someone currently dabbing a pale, greenish paste over it. Gunther flinched at every touch. His face was twisted away from her, but he did not seem to be conscious – he hadn't reacted to their arrival.

"Jane, may I introduce Shahid. I met him many years ago – he is a trusted friend."

The tall figure turned slowly. The man was perhaps a few years younger than Sir Theodore, with a grey-streaked beard and smooth, almond skin. He wore strange clothes – some kind of long, layered robe – and the thin hand he extended to Jane bore the ends of a dark tattoo that extended up his arm, disappearing beneath his sleeve. Jane returned the greeting dumbly, struggling to maintain her manners, her eyes straying to Gunther.

"I sent a letter to Shahid months ago, when we were first alerted to the possibility of war. He arrived only yesterday – in the nick of time, as it seems."

She knew that these added details from Sir Theodore were to give her time to collect herself, a nudge for her to speak. She inclined her head, trying to ignore the muted, painful noises coming from behind the physician.

"Good morning," she managed. "I am most pleased to meet you. You must have had a long night."

Shahid did not smile, but his tone was pleasant when he spoke. A slight accent filtered through his words. "Indeed. There have been many casualties."

He turned away to relieve her of having to think of a polite response. He retrieved some clean bandages and returned to his patient. Jane followed cautiously, keeping to the other side of the bed to give him room. Gunther looked terrible. Laid out on the bed he looked oddly vulnerable – she realised that she hadn't seen him ill before. His lean frame was shaking violently and his breathing came in sharp, shallow gasps. His skin was bloodless – the nicks and scratches on his arms blazed like fire ants. The graze on his forehead was now paired with a dark bruise, his face was lined with pain, his eyes screwed shut, his jaw tight. She had a sudden urge to reach out and touch him, take his hand or his arm… His own hands were balled into hard fists.

"How does our knight fare, Shahid?" Sir Theodore was saying. "He seems better."

_Better? _Jane couldn't imagine how Gunther had looked the night before if this was 'better'. He looked like hell. She watched Shahid secure a new bandage over the ugly wound in his side, wincing as Gunther's body jerked in response.

"He has lost too much blood to tell," Shahid replied softly. "I intended to give him longer to recover, but this needs taking care of."

He gestured to the arrow shaft, which Jane realised was still embedded in Gunther's shoulder. The skin around it was inflamed and sore, and seemed to be leaking a pale discharge. Shahid was inspecting it closely, his brow furrowed in concentration. Jane took the opportunity to search Gunther's face for recognition – his eyes were shifting beneath their lids, battling some unseen enemy. His name flickered on the tip of her tongue. She felt that, if she could only speak his name, he would sit up and laugh at her for being so girlishly emotional. It would all be a bad dream.

"Why is he… shaking like this?" she said instead, keeping her voice as level as possible.

"Infection is common where arrow wounds are concerned," Shahid replied, as if reading from a book. "It has already set in. We feared removing it last night would cause too much shock. But we cannot wait any longer."

He turned to Sir Theodore, who was still standing near the entrance to the tent. Jane tore her eyes away from Gunther, watching as Shahid placed the remaining bandages on the trunk.

"I will need fresh water."

"This way. Jane will keep watch until we return."

Before she could speak they were ducking out of the tent, their low voices dying away. She found herself once more surrounded by heavy silence, now punctuated with Gunther's ragged breathing and stunted moans. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, reassuring herself that he was not about to grow still and… stop. His hands had relaxed now that Shahid had stopped prodding at his injury, and she could see that the skin on his knuckles was bloody and bruised. Her arm moved of its own volition and his cold, clammy skin met her fingers. She traced his arm slowly from elbow to wrist, hardly daring to breathe. It was strange what seeing someone almost die could do to her feelings. She could barely understand what she was doing – she just had an unshakable urge to touch him, to prove to herself that he was there. She pressed down lightly, counted the pulse fluttering under her fingertips. Alive. It was more than she had expected after seeing him lying on the battlefield, after the way he had drifted away from her…

"J'ne…"

Her hand froze where it had come to rest over his. She lifted her gaze to his face, found his eyes open and fixed on her. He looked confused, panicked, blinking hard as if to bring her into focus. She considered withdrawing her hand, but there was a strange need in his face for comfort. He was scared, no doubt. And perhaps he would not even remember this moment later on when he recovered from the fever. So she smiled, tried to appear calm.

"How are you?"

He was trying to lift his head to better see what was going on but sank back heavily with a groan. His grip tightened shakily over her hand and she felt a surge of warmth.

"Wha… wha's 'ppned?" he whimpered, squeezing his eyes closed.

"You were wounded in the battle," she explained hesitantly, unsure of how much she should disclose. She did not want to panic him. "Sir Theodore and a friend are taking care of you."

He swore loudly. At first she thought he was responding to her – then she realised that he was reaching for his side, trying to feel for the source of the pain. She reached over to push his hand gently away and his nails dug into her skin, searching for a release. She imagined the agony taking hold of him as he swam back to full awareness and tried to draw his attention back to herself, hoping that Shahid would return soon.

"Gunther? Gunther, listen. You'll be alright, I know it is painful, but-"

"Y'here," he mumbled, suddenly blinking up at her once more. "Found you… s'dreaming…"

"I believe I found _you,_" she retorted, smirking, attempting to make what sense she could of the confused muttering. "I suppose we know for sure now who is the better knight, hmm?"

"S'you," he said at once, rolling his head away. "Always you… J'ne…"

She had not expected that. She tried to laugh but it seemed out of place. His grip tightened on hers as his body tensed – she could almost feel him trying to swallow the sounds of pain. She looked again at the tent entrance, debating calling for help. Perhaps Shahid had some kind of tonic that would numb the pain… She felt useless just hovering over him like a mother hen, nothing of value to say or do. She did not exactly have a good bedside manner – it didn't suit her. Another tortured groan had her pulling her hands free and stepping towards the outside world.

"I'll fetch them, just stay-"

"Nuh, _Jane…_"

She turned in time to see him struggle upright, placing his weight on his uninjured arm. Almost at once his limbs faltered and he cried out in pain, snatching a hand to his side. She was back beside him in an instant, slipping an arm behind his shoulders before he could fall and laying him down as carefully as she could. His good arm surged upwards and his hand clenched in her tunic, holding her fast. She stared down at him in surprise, now standing at the head of the bed, trapped.

"Gunther, _what… _You will tear your stitches! You must stay still-"

"Don't," he managed thickly. "Don't go, please… J'ne, please…"

He was _pleading _with her. She had never heard him say 'please' in his life. She watched him fighting to keep his eyes open, the recent movement having drained him, despite his strong hold on her tunic. She reached for his hand, closed hers over it once more, brushed the strands of hair plastered to his neck free with the other. The motion reminded her harshly of the battlefield, when she had been screaming at him to stay awake. Now he leaned into her palm, his skin burning beneath the cold sweat. She could only stare. The fever seemed to have cut down his icy defence of sarcasm, and she felt as if she was looking at him for the first time. He was simply there, and his voice was cutting her to the bone. Something within her screamed every time he said her name. He was still muttering, his words slurring together, and she wet her lips.

"I won't," she said at last, and she felt his grip relax slightly. "I'll stay."

He finally fell quiet, still trembling. His hand grew slowly lax and she lowered their tangled arms to rest on the bed, skating her fingers lightly over his forehead. She could not allow herself to give in too much. He seemed confused, not quite himself to say the least, and she had to force herself to refrain from placing meaning on his words. There was no reason for her to leap to conclusions regarding his feelings, particularly when she barely understood her own. She did not know why her heart was thundering in her chest like horse hooves, or why her stomach felt light and fluttery. She was beginning to feel like a swooning maiden, and she was not enjoying it. And yet…

_If I could choose… I would never leave your side._

She shook her head, attempting to drive the thoughts away. He had never given any indication of being… _taken_ with her before, and she had certainly offered no encouragement. They were sworn enemies, after all. Not to mention that this was the most inappropriate time possible to be thinking of such things. Although it didn't help that she could see rather a lot of him at that moment, due to the light sheet and his state of undress. She felt herself flushing and blinked away furiously, relieved that he seemed to have fallen asleep. She contemplated making another attempt to call for Shahid, but did not want to risk provoking him into rising again.

To her relief, her ears snatched at the sound of approaching voices and a few moments later Shahid was back, Sir Theodore on his heels. Sir Theodore held a deep tin pail filled with clear water, while Shahid carried a bucket. Gunther's eyes drifted open at their footsteps – apparently he had not fallen asleep. Jane's fingers jumped away from his hair and she moved back, hoping to return to a more suitable stance, but he refused to release her other hand and she was forced to stop, unwilling to cause him any further distress. To her relief neither Shahid or Sir Theodore commented on their position – Shahid had already retrieved several of the instruments resting on the trunk and was bending close to the arrow shaft, frowning.

"How do you fare, Sir Gunther?" he inquired, lightly feeling the skin around the shaft. "I would have preferred you to have chosen a different moment to wake, this will not be pleasant."

Gunther simply stared at him vacantly, wincing with pain when the inquisitive fingers pressed too hard. He turned his head towards Jane, searching for her gaze, as if she were his lifeline. She wanted to smile but she could not – Shahid's words sounded too ominous. She ran her thumb across his knuckles instead, hoping to offer some comfort.

"You will, no doubt, feel unwell – we hope to have you on the mend soon," Shahid continued casually, as if discussing the cause of a minor cough. "We will get this over with quickly, so that you can get some rest."

He made a sign to Sir Theodore, who moved over to stand beside him and laid a careful hand on Gunther's arm. Shahid reached for the arrow shaft and felt it cautiously before twisting it experimentally. Gunther's muffled cry tore at Jane's heart and she reached for his uninjured shoulder with her free hand, trying to steady him. His body was taught beneath her hand, flinching away from the man's administrations. Shahid released the arrow, leaving him gasping raggedly.

"It will not turn," he said grimly. "We will have to retrieve it."

He removed a small knife from his handful of tools and held Gunther's twitching shoulder steady, shooting Jane a meaningful glance. Understanding, she tightened her grip. Shahid lowered the knife.

"I will try to be quick."

And then Gunther was screaming, and Jane was fighting to keep him flat on the bed. She had always resented how much stronger he was than herself; it was only due to his current weakness that she had any chance at all in overpowering him. She glanced quickly at the arrow – Shahid had opened the wound wider and was swapping his knife for a thinner instrument. He drew the wooden shaft free and, for one wonderful moment, Jane thought it was over. But the arrowhead was nowhere to be seen, and Shahid was retrieving a small pair of forceps and sliding them firmly into the wound, following the line of the probe. Gunther's screams turned to violent, hoarse swears.

"Gunther!" Jane hissed, struggling to maintain her grip on his arm. "Be still, please! It is almost done-"

"J-Jane… Jane, _please…_"

She released his shoulder and laid one hand against his face. His skin was slick with sweat, his whole body shaking with great spasms of pain. If she could have taken his place, even for a second, she would have done so in an instant. Instead she remained a helpless spectator. He met her stare, his eyes glazed with agony. He was beginning to hyperventilate, his lips rapidly losing what little colour they had. Fear closed over her head.

"Gunther, _breathe. _Remember? Try, please, it is almost over…"

He blinked, biting back his cries. She could hear him struggling to obey her, trying to even out his breathing. It was not working – every move Shahid made had his breath catching in his throat, his body jolting harshly. She searched desperately for words that would help, pushing her hand through his fine, dark hair. He needed something to fix his attention on, something apart from the pain, but there was nothing…

"Just look at me," she said at last, aware of the fact that her own voice was rising in panic. "Look at me, don't think about it. Gunther…"

He glued his gaze to hers obediently, his chest heaving as he struggled to draw breath, his grip crushing her hand. She squeezed back, holding his eye contact, trying to pour everything she felt into that connection. She tried to lay herself open, tried to offer him a pathway to her soul, tried to draw him off the metal teeth digging into his flesh. He seemed to almost fall into her, his face relaxing slightly. He was slipping away again; she recognised that terrible emptiness from the battlefield. She felt a rush of panic, moving her thumb over his cheek as his gaze grew distant.

_No, no, no!_ She could almost hear her heart screaming. _Don't do that, please, don't leave me… _His fingers had lost their grip and she felt desperately for his pulse as his head rolled towards her hand lethargically. It took her a few moments to decipher the rapid, thready thumps beating against her fingers.

"Shahid?" Sir Theodore prompted, breaking the sudden silence.

She flinched – for a moment, she had forgotten that they had company. All that had mattered was calming Gunther, reaching him. She flushed at the thought of Sir Theodore and Shahid witnessing her acting like a nursemaid, straightened up stiffly. Shahid was bent over his patient, his eyes narrowed.

"I feel it," he said tightly. "It is easier now he is still… There."

With a sickening squelch, he twisted the forceps and eased the stubborn, barbed arrowhead free of its residence. He dropped it in Sir Theodore's waiting pail with a dull clank and snatched up the bandages the other man offered, pressing them hard against the blood that was welling up. Sir Theodore retrieved the bucket and together they cleaned the wound, moving quickly as if the whole task had been choreographed. Gunther's hand was limp in Jane's – she lowered it carefully, reluctant to let it go. But his face was still, and he showed no signs of waking.

"Will he be alright?" she managed at last, watching as Shahid covered the wound with a brownish paste and bandaged it rapidly.

"If he survives the fever," he replied. "The wound must be kept clean. I would suggest cauterising it, but I fear the shock would be too much."

Sir Theodore nodded ruefully in agreement. Jane searched for certainty in his words, and came up empty handed. She hovered beside the bed, unwilling to leave, unsure of whether she should stay. She watched Shahid gather his things together, shot a questioning glance at Sir Theodore. The older man raised his eyebrow.

"There are others who need care, I'm afraid," he explained. "Perhaps you would be content to keep watch over your comrade for now? Until I have time to organise our numbers…"

"Of course. I… of course."

"I will send water over," Shahid threw over his shoulder as he reached the entrance to the tent. "Get him to drink, if you can."

With a few parting words that washed over her numb ears, Sir Theodore followed Shahid outside before Jane could thank him. Left alone once more, she felt suddenly lost. Spotting a chair in the far corner, she dragged it over to the bed and sank down into it, her energy running out of her limbs. She pulled the sheet up to Gunther's chest, uncomfortably sensitive to the tremors rolling over him, listening to his shallow breathing, her hand resting on his wrist to count his rapid heartbeats.

**Thanks for reading.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Jane and the Dragon.**

**WARNING: Contains blood and violence, possibly some bad language.**

**Note: This is basically a fanfiction of Krya4's fanfictions. I love the way she brings the story into adulthood and thought I'd have a go at something similar. As a result this story is practically hers, only with the roles of Jane and Gunther reversed. Krya4 - you're awesome, please keep writing!**

* * *

Over the next few days the camp would begin to dismantle and return soldiers and weaponry to the castle. The threat of another attack was low, and Dragon's routine scouting out ensured that they could not be taken by surprise. Their enemy seemed to have retreated back to their own lands, leaving them free to return to their everyday lives, and King Caradoc had sent out a peace treaty to ensure no further aggravation. It seemed, to all present, that the war was coming to an end.

The days moved slowly for Jane. She alternated between keeping watch over Gunther and speaking with Dragon about what he had seen and heard during his flights. She tried not to be away for long – she could pretend it was because Gunther was without fail more agitated after she had been away, but her fear that he would take a turn for the worse while she was chattering about battle plans kept her departures short. She felt justified in her concerns – his fever had grown steadily worse over the first day she had spent with him and after the first night had reached an unbearable level. Shahid had no remedy for it aside from a clear, amber-coloured tonic which did not seem to help much – it was more trouble than it seemed worth getting Gunther to swallow it in the first place. Shahid himself appeared twice a day to clean and re-dress the wounds before vanishing once more, having other patients to attend to. Several died during that first night – Jane smelled the funeral fires burning, and reached for Gunther's hand.

That night had gone so terribly – filled with Gunther's moans and cries as he struggled through dreams she could not see and wasted energy he could not spare fighting off hallucinations and ghosts – that in the morning she eventually asked for a bucket and a cloth. She had been trying to restrain herself from doing so, hoping not to give herself away more than she already had, but Gunther's pain eventually drove her to it. She could not place her reputation and fears at a higher cost than his welfare. So she asked a passing soldier to fetch her the water and fidgeted anxiously as she waited for it, feeling oddly nervous. At that moment Gunther was engaged in some dream, muttering and shouting incoherently at various intervals. He had clenched his fists so hard the night before that his nails had drawn blood; now she took care to push the sheets into his grasp instead, hoping to prevent any further damage. The precaution left tiny, wobbly semi-circles of blood on the linen. She tried not to look at them.

She was still staring over at him, chewing anxiously on her lip, when the water arrived. She took it with a short acknowledgement, and then stopped herself as she realised that the bearer had somehow become Jester. He handed it over slowly, his gaze shifting past her into the tent.

"Hello, Jane," he said, his voice quiet. "How are you?"

She blinked at him, still stunned at his sudden appearance. She had not seen any of her friends for the past twenty-four hours – perhaps that was why he was visiting. She nodded, searching for words.

"Fine, I am fine."

Jester nodded at the bed behind her, his face twisted. She hesitated.

"He is… less fine."

"I see." Jester's hands were wringing together in front of him. If he had been in his usual attire they would have no doubt been fiddling with the bells on his hat. As it was, he looked oddly small without his usual bright clothing. He made a strange movement between a shrug and a shiver. "I wanted to… well, to thank him, but… Perhaps another time…"

"Thank him?"

Jester nodded sadly. He did not seem to want to look her in the eye. "It was my fault, after all. I was surrounded and he was trying to help, but I wasn't looking and…" He broke off, his lips tight. "I should have warned him," he said finally.

Jane reached for his arm, shaking her head. "It wasn't your fault, Jester, you did your best," she replied. She tightened her grip until he looked up at her. "He would have done what he thought best, no matter what warnings or advice you gave. Beef brain."

Jester managed a small smile. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but at that moment Gunther let out a ragged cry and moved as if to get up. Jane flinched into action, crossing to him in two fast strides and pressing her hand down on his uninjured shoulder to keep him still. His eyes were open but they could not see her – they were roving wildly from side to side. She deposited the bucket by her feet, dipped the cloth into the cold water and wrung it out as best she could one-handed.

"J'ne… _Jane, _run…"

"It's not real," she told him steadily, pressing the cloth against his face. He jerked violently at its contact, lifted his hand to swat it away. She caught his fingers and held them firmly. "It is not real, Gunther. It's alright."

He was blinking hard, and she saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He stared at her as she wiped at the sweat on his face and neck, his face softening somewhat. He muttered something she could not understand and his eyes closed. When she finally looked up, satisfied that he was calm again, Jester had gone.

She had a few more visitors over the next night and day, although Gunther barely seemed conscious of it. Aside from Shahid, Sir Ivon and Sir Theodore dropping by to check on them, Dragon's huge nose appeared at the tent opening that afternoon. She carefully unhooked her arm from Gunther's grip and went over to meet him, grateful for his familiar, light-hearted tone. He rubbed his head against her open palm.

"I thought you'd gone into hibernation. Are you ever coming out of there?"

She smiled at him, pushing his nose down. "I said I would keep watch."

He 'humph'ed quietly. "How is the moody little shortlife?"

"Shahid – the doctor – says his fever must break soon, or he will not survive." The words were suddenly terrifying to her and she had to pause to collect herself before continuing. "He said he has lost too much blood to fight off the infection."

Dragon's growl rumbled and he pushed his head forwards – she lifted the tent flap to help, grateful that his huge head would block out the tears stinging her eyes from any passers by. She rested her forehead against the warm scales of his snout.

"Sorry," she mumbled, sniffing, trying to compose herself. "It seems I am not behaving very… _knightly _these days."

"You are behaving very human-like," Dragon replied smartly. "Shame shortlives are so delicate, eh? What you need is some thick Dragon-skin."

"With all the itchy scales? No, thank you."

She brushed at her face, clawed her hands through her hair, stepped back from him. He tilted his head, searching her face, silently asking her if she would be alright. She nodded, pasted a smile across her face to convince him.

"Do you need any help with the camp? Are they troubling you?"

He shook his head. "I am to help them carry some of their inferior shortlife weaponry back to the castle. I cannot wait."

His sarcasm felt like home. She glanced over her shoulder at Gunther and saw that his eyes were screwed tightly shut. She had become so used to his episodes of motion and panic that she could almost spot them coming now.

"Do you need any help?" she asked Dragon, knowing that she had neglected him, praying that he would decline all the same. "I could call someone else to…"

He was shaking his huge head, withdrawing from the tent. "In fact, there were some cows not far off I hoped to visit – kindly stop deterring me!"

She smirked as his huge foot-falls thundered away, returning to Gunther's side. She reached for the cloth and ran it over his face, trying to stave off the oncoming fight.

"Ja-Jane."

"I'm here."

Shahid came by once more that evening, although his grim expression did nothing to comfort her. She felt the terrible dawning knowledge that they needed to see a change soon, or it would all be for nothing. She would lose him for the final time, and part of herself would go with him. She watched him jerk sporadically, watched his eyes flicker wildly. His breathing had grown shorter throughout the day and his outbursts were becoming less frequent. The day before he had responded when she reached for his hand – now he barely seemed to feel her. She was watching him fade slowly away, powerless to stop it, now even unable to offer comfort. Shahid re-dressed the arrow wound slowly, and she waited for him to speak. She wanted news, good news, something to indicate that it would not all have been for nothing… He glanced up at her briefly.

"I will tell Sir Theodore to send for his father," he said at last. He inclined his head to her before leaving, as if as an apology, and she had to remind herself to breathe as he left.

Send for his father. Send for Magnus. So that he could say his farewells… She felt something in her gut twist and sat down heavily on the chair. Gunther's body twitched and whimpered next to her – it barely seemed to be him anymore. Some quality that made him familiar had slipped through her fingers. She found herself starting at his hand where it lay on the sheets, finger nails dirty, knuckles rough with dried blood.

"Gunther?"

He did not answer her, and she fastened her teeth on her lip to bite back a sob. She would have given anything at that moment for a response, coherent or not, just something to indicate that he was still with her. She laid her hand carefully over his, conscious of the heat his skin was giving out. His fingers bent compliantly beneath her grip.

"If you are doing this to spite me, Gunther, I will be very cross. It is not at all funny."

She lifted his hand, holding it gently between her own, glancing over at him. His eyes had opened, still as sightless and empty as glass, gazing off into space. She waited patiently, but after a few moments they simply closed again, abandoning her once more. She let out a breath, trying to face up to the truth of it. He was going. And she would never get the chance to explain, to understand what the hell was going on between them, because it had become so infinitely complicated by now that she could not pick it apart on her own. She felt tied to him, as if by chains, as if a line stretched between her heart and his, and tugged at her painfully whenever she tried to draw away. Before she could think better of it, she turned her head and pressed her lips against the back of his hand. For a few long moments, she was acutely aware of his skin and his smell, of the minute twitches still rolling through him… She drew back before she could be caught by more unexpected visitors, keeping hold of his hand.

"Just… _don't, _Gunther," she muttered. "Please, don't."

He had never listened to her before, and there was no reason for him to do so now. But she remained curled on the chair, holding on to him as if she could pull him back from the edge as the sky grew dark outside the tent. She could only see now by candlelight. Some time later she heard a soft 'wh-whump' outside and glanced up to see Dragon's amber eyes peering through the tent.

"Bad?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Dragon huffed quietly and disappeared from view. She heard him moving softly around the tent and settling beside it – she could see his great, arching back through the canvas. She reached out and pressed against it, felt his warmth through the material. He was there.

The night drew on. She was tired. She had only been able to sleep a couple of hours the night before, not wanting to be away in case she was needed. Now, she did not dare close her eyes in case something happened, should he need her or… or suddenly depart. None of it felt real. She wondered if maybe she had been wounded in the battle instead, and this was all just some hallucination, and she would wake up in her tower in just a few hours to the dull thumps of arrows hitting their target in the training yard… She would cross to the window and see him straightening up, his arm perfect as always, drawing the bow taught to let another one fly, and he would glance up at her with that stare halfway between smirking and scowling… She realised that her head was nodding forwards and shook herself awake, looking him over in a sudden panic. He had moved slightly – his head was turned towards her and his other arm was resting over his stomach, as if in mid-reach for her. She moved it carefully away, preventing it from placing weight on his side, and he made a small noise in the back of his throat. She leaned forwards, fear and relief mingling in her chest.

"Gunther?"

She reached for the cloth on his forehead and turned it over, cool-side down. His eyes cracked open and focussed on her at once – she paused, resting her hand briefly against his face. She didn't know what she should say, so she remained silent. He simply looked at her, breathing softly through his nose. His eyes ran over her as if memorizing her face, as if he expected to be quizzed on the exact contours of her features.

"Don't die," she found herself saying dazedly. "_Please_."

He watched her a moment longer, his lips parted as if he were about to speak, and then his eyes shut once more and he was gone again. For the first time in the past few days, she allowed herself to cry for a few minutes, her hand pressed over her mouth to muffle the sound. Dragon was right outside, and she did not want attention at this moment. She sucked in a few jagged breaths, wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve, tried to gather herself. She was so intent on chasing away her tears that she did not notice that his temperature had cooled slightly until an hour or so later.

When she did notice, she did not dare speak should she break the spell. She kept her mouth firmly shut, running the damp cloth carefully over his face and chest, her ears pricked. His breathing had evened out slightly, was even less shallow than before. The candles burned out but she did not go for more – she could not leave. As the pale, cold light of dawn began to filter through the gaps in the tent she trailed her fingers through his hair, leaned as close as she dared. He still flinched slightly now and again, but she could not feel that horrible, blazing heat that had overrun him the day before and his face was no longer tense. She shuddered with a great sigh of relief, shut her eyes tightly.

"Thank you," she whispered.

And she put her head down on the bed beside him and let herself sleep.

* * *

She was awoken a while later by Sir Theodore entering the tent. He looked as if the past few days had aged him some years, his face weary and his pace slow. But he smiled widely as he took in her expression and then Gunther's subdued air. He retrieved a thicker blanket from the trunk and she helped him spread it out, sharing in his relief.

"Perhaps you should take some rest, Jane," he suggested as she settled back in the chair once more. "I believe Sir Gunther is out of any immediate danger for now."

She nodded, but did not rise. She could not explain it, but she had been beside him for so long now that it seemed wrong to leave. She had a horrible fantasy of him waking up alone, trying to get up, falling, no one present to steady him… Of course, Sir Theodore would not leave him unattended, but her heart would not allow her to leave. She took the bread roll Sir Theodore had brought for her, realising dimly how hungry she was. She wondered how much of the camp had been dismantled, and posed the question to her mentor.

"Most of the weaponry and armoury has been returned to the castle," Sir Theodore replied. "We have begun to move the villagers and the wounded home, but some cannot be disturbed yet. Tomorrow, perhaps, we will manage to leave."

Tomorrow seemed so soon to be asking Gunther to get up and walk. She imagined there would be horses, wagons, carts, but when she thought about how close she had come to losing him the idea of jostling hooves and bumpy roads seemed out of the question. She suggested remaining behind for a few days more, but Sir Theodore declined her.

"There will be better facilities to care for the wounded back at the castle," he said firmly. "And we are far too exposed should the enemy launch a surprise attack. We must return as soon as we can."

Of course, he was right. She imagined trying to fend off an army in her current state and quickly gave in. Remaining behind would only endanger Gunther more – the sooner they returned to the castle the better. She found herself wondering if Smithy, Rake and Jester had gone home yet. Rake almost certainly must have – perhaps Smithy and Jester might have remained behind to help. She glanced over her shoulder at the canvas wall where Dragon had slept last night – he had gone. She owed him a visit and her thanks. She felt sure that, had he not been there with her during the night, she would have crumbled.

She was about to ask whether Shahid would be joining them when she caught approaching footsteps and glanced up at Sir Theodore questioningly. The older knight looked oddly serious, his eyes narrowed. He shot her a strange glance, as if in warning, and even as she opened her mouth to question it the tent flap opened and two large figures appeared. One was Sir Ivon, finally out of his armour and free of his duties for a moment – the other was the hunched, pot-bellied form of Magnus. Jane's stomach dropped away and she rose to her feet, cursing under her breath. She had forgotten that he had been sent for. Over the years Gunther and his father seemed to have drawn farther apart – she barely ever saw them together now, unless Gunther was required for some heavy-lifting job down at the docks that he could not escape. Their relationship did not seem exactly friendly – there was always a strange iciness between them, a kind of silence, that neither seemed to wish to remedy. She could not imagine that his presence would be helpful now.

"You have fine timing, merchant," Sir Theodore said as the large man lumbered forwards. "Your son seems to be recovering, at last."

Magnus' small eyes shifted to the bed and then up towards Jane. She folded her arms, her face darkening despite her best efforts to appear polite. He smirked coldly, looking her up and down.

"Lady Knight," he said in greeting. "I see Miss Hot-Head has emerged from the battle without a scratch."

He spoke venomously, as if she had used Gunther as a human shield to survive. She clenched her teeth to avoid offering him a retort – she did not want to fight over Gunther's prone body when he had only just begun to pull away from death. Magnus glanced down at his son once more.

"His arm," he said abruptly. "Will he recover its use?"

"I believe so," Sir Theodore replied. "My friend is hopeful that, now that the fever has passed, he will heal as normal."

"There is that, at least, then," Magnus said coldly, turning away with a scowl. "If he cannot be a decent knight he will at least remain useful at the docks."

"I think you must be confused," Jane broke out, unable to bite her lip any longer. "Your son almost _died _last night, merchant. It is only due to his strength of character that he is alive now."

"If he had been a better swordsman, he would have saved you all a lot of bother," Magnus replied, smirking. "As it is, he has managed to fail me yet again."

"_He_ fail _you?" _

Sir Theodore was lifting a hand, attempting to silence her, but she could not let it go. Not this time. She strode around to the other side of the bed and planted herself face to face with Gunther's father, her face blazing with fury, her arms tensed as if to punch him. God, she _wanted _to punch him. But even if she could not stop her tongue, she could restrain herself from starting a brawl in Gunther's sick room.

"As you seem to be completely ignorant of the situation, I must point out that it is you who has failed him," she snapped, squaring up to him even as he drew himself up to his full height. "You are utterly despicable to speak of him like this. He was wounded saving others less able than himself, we have fought day and night for his very _life, _and all you can do is sneer and complain? He is _ten times _the man you will ever be, and he deserves your respect, _merchant!"_

Magnus' lip curled and he drew closer. She felt Sir Theodore's hand on her shoulder but she did not care – she would not back down. Magnus had gone a bright, beetroot-red and was huffing furiously.

"You _insolent _little – How _dare _you – a _child _pretending to be a knight, speaking to me in such a manner-"

"You will mend your attitude, Magnus, or I shall mend it for you-"

_"Enough!"_

She bit off her words at the cry. At some point in the last few seconds Shahid had entered the tent, and his face was stony. He looked from Jane to Magnus and back again, daring them to speak again. When he did open his mouth his words were like thunder, and Jane felt her rage shrink into shame.

"What on earth you think you are doing is beyond me, carrying on in such a way, _here _of all places. In case you have forgotten, I have a _patient _resting here. I suggest you take your quarrels elsewhere. Now."

Magnus laughed icily and turned on his heel. "I was just going," he threw over his shoulder. "This place stinks."

Jane watched him leave, managing to refrain from chasing after him and clapping him over the head with the nearest blunt object she could find. She tore her gaze away from him to find Shahid glaring at her.

"And you, Lady Jane. I suggest you get some sleep."

She opened her mouth to object but Sir Theodore's raised eyebrow stopped her. She cursed herself furiously – she had lost her privilege of discovering Gunther's welfare, and all because she could not hold her tongue. Still, she could not be sorry for her words. She had meant every last one. She floundered helplessly for a few moments, trying to think of an excuse to say, but Shahid's face was unrelenting. She drew away slowly, dipping her head in acceptance.

"Yes, Sir. I apologise."

She hesitated in the entrance, watching as Shahid crossed over to the bed. Gunther had not stirred once during the whole exchange, and she feared suddenly that something had gone wrong. But she could sill see his chest rising and falling rhythmically, she could see pallor of his skin still flickering with life. She forced herself to turn away, letting the canvas flaps fall and hiding him from sight.

"Just as well," Sir Ivon's voice said, filtering through the tent walls. "If she had not seen to that ugly beast I feel I would have."

The words made her smile, at least, as she took her leave. She felt suddenly heavy, as if she had spent the last of her energy in the argument with Magnus. He was gone now, returned to his precious cargo at the docks, no doubt. She breathed in the cool morning air, screwed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She ached. Her pace slow, she returned to her tent and dropped down on the bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

**Thanks for reading.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Jane and the Dragon.**

**WARNING: Contains blood and violence, possibly some bad language.**

**Note: This is basically a fanfiction of Krya4's fanfictions. I love the way she brings the story into adulthood and thought I'd have a go at something similar. As a result this story is practically hers, only with the roles of Jane and Gunther reversed. Krya4 - you're awesome, please keep writing!**

* * *

It felt like mere seconds later that Dragon's voice cleft her head in two, sending her surging up from her curled position on the bed in a panic. She could hear him laughing as she struggled to push her hair out of her face, blinking sleep from her eyes, reeling from the shock.

"D-Dragon? What are you _doing?"_

He had stuck his head through the entrance of her tent, and his massive skull almost filled the entire space. She wriggled free of her bed, smacking him lightly on the nose as he sniggered.

"They said to wake you up. Are you awake now?"

She scowled at his wide grin. "Yes, Greenlips, I am. What's going on? What time is it?"

"Almost midday."

_Midday? _She stared blankly at the light shafting through the entrance to her tent. Bright, sunny daylight. But it had been almost midday when she had left Gunther's tent, and she felt distinctly better rested than then… Her eyes widened as she realised.

"How long was I asleep?" she demanded, leaping up and crossing to the basin, inching her way around Dragon's snout. "It cannot have been that long, _surely…"_

"Well, you were tired," Dragon reproached her, nudging her leg as she splashed cool water over her face. "Still, it's very impressive. Only Dragons sleep for days at a time – I must be rubbing off on you, hmm?"

"Literally," she retorted, flicking a sprinkle of water at him as he continued to push at her foot, trying playfully to knock her over. "I cannot _believe _it, how could Sir Theodore allow it…"

"Old Rusty Legs has been busy, no doubt, repairing relationships with a certain merchant. I heard you gave him quite the lesson in manners."

She turned sharply at his smirking tone, her eyebrows leaping upwards. Dragon cocked his head deviously, his teeth bared happily.

"I'm sorry I missed it, sounded like a good show. Rest assured, Magnus the Mean does not seem to be pursuing the matter. I think you might have _scared _him, Jane."

"He had it coming," she said fiercely, digging in her trunk for a fresh tunic. "That man is… urgh!"

Dragon withdrew to let her wash and change, his purr reverberating through the canvas walls. She moved quickly, wondering how much she had missed in the past few hours. They must be ready to move the last members of the camp and take down the remaining tents. She threw what little she had brought into the trunk, pulled new clothes over her head, shook her hair free.

"You said they wanted me?" she called through the tent flaps, suddenly remembering Dragon's opening words. "Is… everything alright?"

"No cause for concern," Dragon replied flippantly, his head reappearing at the tent entrance.

He met her questioning gaze calmly, answering the question she had stopped herself from asking. She let out a breath she didn't realise she had been holding and pulled on her boots, snatching up her sword before emerging into the clear daylight. The camp was alive with movement, and many of the tents that had surrounded her previously had already been taken down leaving beaten earth in their stead. She followed Dragon through the crowds of people, giggling as he impatiently hastened soldiers out of his way. The walkways were barely large enough to accommodate him and his great tail was pointed upwards into the air, occasionally knocking tents and equipment. They hurried clear, heading towards the outskirts of the camp, where she finally caught sight of Sir Theodore. He greeted her warmly, pausing in the process of relaying orders to one of the squires.

"Lady Jane, hello. I do hope you are feeling refreshed?"

"I am, Sir Theodore," she replied, smiling. "Ready to help. What can I do?"

"We are going to start moving the wounded back to the castle. Some of the carts have already left – there is not much space."

She nodded, glancing around. A large number of carts and wagons were grouped together near the road, being steadily loaded with the wounded. Squires were dashing to and fro, collecting belongings, showing people through, acting as human crutches. Some able knights were waiting nearby to set off, ready to accompany them back.

"Sir Ivon is to remain behind to oversee the rest of the camp home," Sir Theodore was explaining. "I will lead this group back. I would be grateful if you would accompany us – I trust that you and Dragon will be able to see off any unwanted company in the event of danger."

"Of course," she said, glancing up at Dragon. He nodded shortly, examining his claws.

"Easily," he agreed. "Bandits, robbers, sworn enemies, they all flee from my fiery breath, my razor claws, my-"

"Massive ego?" Jane cut in, grinning.

Dragon broke off, lowering his head to blow a rush of hot air down her back. "Watch it, shortlife, I'm a fearsome brute, don't you know."

She wriggled away from him. Sir Theodore was hiding a smile, still casting a watchful eye over the preparations. He glanced back at her worriedly, gesturing to the carts.

"I fear they are filling up already, we do not want to overcrowd the soldiers. Perhaps some will have to go on horseback, if needs be…"

"Very well, Sir Theodore, I volunteer."

Jane felt her heart stutter and her stomach jerk uncomfortably. The voice was strained and weak, but unmistakable. She had, after all, listened to it for almost two full days and nights. And yet now, she found herself frozen in place, unable to face it. All she could think about was that final night, of the way his glassy eyes had fixed on hers as if he was praying for something, as if he were about to reach out and close his hand over her heart. She saw his clammy, sweat-streaked skin and remembered how hot it had felt against her lips. She realised dimly that Sir Theodore was speaking and turned slowly, forcing a steadying breath into her lungs.

There he was.

He was leaning heavily on Sir Ivon's arm, hunched slightly, his good arm wrapped around his middle. He was wearing his usual grey attire, if looser than usual, and without his sword on his belt. His face was still even paler than usual and he was breathing hard through clenched teeth – she could tell from the tightness of his jaw – the walk from the tents must have exhausted him. She could not quite get over the shock of seeing him upright, his features once more closed to her, his eyebrows drawn coldly together. He met her gaze stoically, pushed free of Sir Ivon, straightened as best he could.

"Jane."

His voice drew echoes from the past nights when he had gasped out her name as if it were his only saving grace, as if it could defend him from death itself. Now his tone was aloof, cool, if a little shaky. She inclined her head slightly, doing her best to appear unmoved.

"Gunther. It is good to see you."

He jerked his head evasively and looked instead at Sir Theodore, who was responding to his previous words.

"Are you sure, Sir Gunther? It will be a long ride, and you are not recovered. It may be… difficult."

Gunther's eyes flashed with something like pride and his eyebrow quirked. "I am sure."

Jane felt as if the ground had dropped away. She dragged herself away from him, aware that she was staring. She listened as Sir Ivon called a squire to fetch a horse, watched Sir Theodore leading some of the soldiers with less urgent wounds over to a line of waiting horses, seeing to the last preparations. She snatched a glance over her shoulder as a horse was brought over to Sir Ivon. Gunther braced himself against it for a moment, his shoulders rising and falling in a deep breath. Then, Sir Ivon helping, he drew himself up and climbed slowly onto its back. By the time he was settled astride it his face had lost all its colour and he was holding his side tightly, his eyes dark with pain. He nodded at something Sir Ivon said, leaning heavily on his good arm, and she could almost see him counting… _Four on the exhale, four on the inhale…_

"I can't," she said, and then blinked in surprise at the words that had flown free of her lips.

Dragon looked down at her, his eyes widening curiously. "Can't what?"

She pulled herself together, pushing a stray lock of hair back. It bounced furiously against her palm, denying the place she tucked it.

"I should stay on the ground," she said, looking up at him. "They might need me. In case of an attack."

"They, or _he?_" Dragon quizzed smugly. He laughed as she scrambled to reply. "Don't worry, shortlife, I will be right above your head."

And he sauntered off without giving her the chance to reply. She scowled after him, furious at the colour rushing into her cheeks. She strode away to Sir Theodore, seeing with relief that there were enough horses left for her to take one.

"I will bring up the rear, Sir," she said. "If you place knights on either side, we will be covered from all angles."

"Very well, Jane. We must depart – it is growing late."

She swung herself up onto a horse, following Sir Theodore's lead as he climbed onto his own steed and gave the order to move out. She waited for the wagons to fall in behind him, flanked by the group of accompanying knights, and then urged her horse forwards to back the scattered riders behind them. She heard the deafening 'wh-whump' as Dragon took off and his huge form blocked out the sun above her momentarily before circling about and veering off to one side. He would fly in a zig-zag in order to keep pace with them – for him, they would be moving insufferably slowly. Her keen eyes picked out Gunther's dark hair near the back of the group, and she pushed her horse gently after him, leaving the camp behind.

* * *

"Tell me, Jane, are you buzzing about me like a fly because you are practising your insect impressions, or are you simply trying to irritate me?"

She turned sharply at the cold, cutting words that had broken into her thoughts. Gunther's pace was slow enough to make him fall behind the majority of the group, who remained in sight further up the wooded trail. She had slowed with him over the past few hours, keeping her eye on the soldiers riding a little ahead of them, trying not to look at him too often. The journey so far had passed in stony silence, rather unlike the chatter of the knights ahead. They seemed to be coping well with the journey due to their lesser injuries – most of those on horseback had only suffered an injured arm or a blow to the head, and she had only had to catch up with them once when one had swayed. He had recovered quickly and brushed it off to the laughter of his companions, allowing her to fall back to ride beside Gunther once more, who was coping rather less well. He had not made a sound for the whole journey, but she could see the sweat standing out on his brow and the way his breathing hitched slightly with every other step the horse took, the way he was bent over slightly. She had been contemplating riding ahead and asking Sir Theodore if they could take a break, but she had not wanted to cause him any shame. She would just have to hope that he would speak out if he needed to.

Now, his words broke through her circling thoughts and gave her an excuse to look at him fully, taking him in. He met her gaze narrowly, his dark eyes stinging with a faint effort of contempt.

"Just following my orders, Gunther," she retorted calmly. "If you do not like my companionship, please feel free to gallop ahead."

He shot her a glare, lifting his chin. "Oh, of course. See you back at the castle," he said, dripping with sarcasm. "I do fancy a little jaunt."

His tone was too forced, his voice shaking. She could see that the hand holding the reigns was trembling. Only one night past he had not even been conscious. She cursed Sir Theodore and Sir Ivon silently for not forcing him to ride in a cart like the others – as if they had really believed him when he had claimed he could ride. He could not – he looked as if he were about to fall off. He glanced at her again, his eyes clouding with frustration.

"For God's sake, will you _stop that?"_

"Stop what?" she demanded hotly, fixing her gaze instead on the sky ahead of them. Dragon passed overhead, high above, an emerald dot catching the sun.

"Stop… _looking _at me like that, as if…"

He did not finish, and she didn't dare look again. He knew. She had given herself away. She wondered how much he remembered from the past few days – with any luck the fever would have wiped his memory clean of her silly, stupid behaviour. She had been crowding over him like a long lost lover in a bad poem. She laughed shortly.

"Oh, I do apologise, Sir Biscuit-Weevil. Please, inform Sir Theodore that I have been _looking _at you, I should be punished at once-"

"Just… Uff."

He interrupted her and then gave up with a sigh, and she was released. She relaxed slightly – even if he did know, she would not let him vocalise it. Nothing needed to change between them. If she could keep it just as it was, they would perhaps forget the foreign closeness that had developed between them. She didn't know what to do with it, and she told herself that she was glad it was receding.

They rode on in silence for an hour or so more, until they came to the edge of the forest, and a cry went up from the front. They would rest – Sir Theodore had said that they were halfway there. Jane fought down a groan of frustration. Travelling was so much faster when she rode with Dragon. On foot and crawling along at this snail's pace, it would be nightfall before they were able to reach the castle. But it could not be helped, and she would rather be here, involved in everything, than far away with Dragon. She watched the carts pulling over, watched the knights swinging down from their horses, exchanging flasks, shouting to one another.

She realised suddenly that Gunther had disappeared from her side. Looking around, caught off guard, she finally caught sight of him reigning in his horse in the shade of the trees. She turned towards him, understanding suddenly that he intended to dismount alone. _Stupid Beef-Brain… _She pushed her horse towards him, but he was already pulling himself out of the saddle. He landed hard on the ground and his legs gave out at once – a strangled cry reached her ears. She lurched forwards, leaping down from her own steed and sprinting over to him, ducking around the horse that blocked him from view.

_"Gunther!"_

He was on his knees, attempting fruitlessly to rise. His arm shook, betraying him, and he dropped towards the ground once more with a muffled groan. She reached him just in time, sliding behind him to break his fall, slipping an arm around his chest to steady him against her. She could feel him breathing heavily, feel the short spasms as he struggled to cope with the pain the impact had caused.

"Gunther! Are you alright?"

His eyes had closed. For a moment blind panic took her – he had not been ready, of _course _he had not been ready for such a journey, how could she have let him do it – but then he was blinking up at her warily, still trembling slightly in her arms.

"What are you _doing, _Jane?"

She froze in place, suddenly realising just how close she was to him. Close enough to feel his breath on her cheek and make out each individual eyelash. She was near enough to see how the graze on his temple had scabbed over somewhat, still darkly bruised, still painful. It took her a while to also notice that she had snatched for his wrist with her free hand when she had seen his eyes close, now an instinctive reaction to ensure that his heart was still beating. He looked up at her with a lucid, clear frown. They were not in Sir Ivon's tent now, and he was not delirious with fever. She uncurled her fingers from his hand, wetting her lips uncertainly. Silence stretched awkwardly between them.

"Sorry," she said at last, as if that served as an explanation. "Can you get up?"

"Yes. If you would just unhand me."

She wriggled away at once, scrambling to her feet. She offered her arm and he took it suspiciously, as if he expected her to suddenly turn her sword on him. She helped him up slowly and he leaned on her as they made their way to the trees, where he made a more dignified descent to the ground and leaned back against a trunk. She hovered anxiously a few steps away. He looked as if he were about to throw up, his face bloodless, his eyes firmly closed. She stood there for a few moments longer, uncertain of whether she should try to explain herself or just leave.

"I'll fetch some water," she said at last. "Try to stay out of trouble, hmm?"

"Jane…"

She stopped, trying to gauge his tone. He did not sound angry or mocking. Truthfully, he just sounded tired. She turned hesitantly. He was looking at her, his face creased unhappily, as if trying to decipher a sentence in a different language. A dawning recognition flickered over him. He took a few steady breaths, still frowning.

"Yes?" she prompted, folding her arms.

He studied her for a few more long seconds, as if picking her apart with his stare, his mouth a firm, straight line. When he eventually did speak, his voice was quieter.

"Did… Did you stay with me?"

She raised her eyebrows slightly, her heart beginning to beat faster in her chest. He sighed and elaborated.

"Sir Ivon told me that you… were there. And I cannot be sure of what was memory and what was dreaming but… I feel that you were. There was a point when I felt I could not breathe, or see, or move, but I could see _you. _And you were…"

He stopped abruptly, dropping her gaze. She could not have spoken even if she had wanted to. Her blood was pounding in her head. Her mind rushed over all that he could of seen – her reaching for him, crying over him, whispering to him… why had she _done _it?

"…there," he finished lamely.

She flushed, cleared her throat. "Well, I was," she replied stonily. "You were in need of… of help."

She thought he might say more, but she was met with nothing but silence. Muttering something about fetching water, she turned on her heel and all but ran from him, seeking out Sir Theodore, hoping no one could see the heat in her face and the tremor in her hands. God, _why _did he suddenly have this effect on her? She was acting like a child, like a damsel in distress. She retrieved a flask of water from one of the carts and stood there for a few long moments, trying to regain her composure. When she made her way back towards the treeline she found, inexplicably, that Dragon was there. He was crouched near to Gunther, making evil faces at the horses which whinnied and danced away from him.

"Come, Dragon, I still have to ride that thing home," Gunther was saying wearily, his voice lacking its usual edge. "I would rather not have it frightened out of its wits."

"Silly mules," Dragon retorted, winking at Jane as she drew closer. "Pathetic excuse for an animal, scared of everything from big hats to squirrels. Why you choose to ride _them _into battle is beyond me."

"Any news, Dragon?" she called as she reached them. "Anything to report?"

"Yes – this is the longest it has ever taken me to get home, _ever, _and all because you shortlives insist on practically _crawling _to the castle. Honestly, I thought we were supposed to be getting there at some point today, not later this _year."_

She made a face at him as she passed Gunther the flask. He took it silently, his fingers skating over hers. She moved away quickly, sat down in the grass opposite Dragon, a short distance from him. She could not let herself look at him, her lungs tight with embarrassment.

"Very funny, you big newt," she said instead. "I meant is there any sign of the enemy?"

"Of course not, I chased them off. As if they would ever return to challenge _me."_

And, rescuing her as always, he launched into a joke he had made up about dung on the flight so far, and she was able to sit quietly picking at strands of grass. When the cry went up for them to move out a while later she lingered there uncertainly, deliberating for a few seconds, before crossing again to Gunther and holding out her hand. He took it and she pulled him up. It took him slightly longer to ready himself for the difficulty of climbing onto the horse but he managed it – she gave him a leg up and he got there, clutching tightly to its mane. She turned on her heel and left to find her own horse, pretending that she could not feel his eyes boring into her. Some distance away, Dragon leaped into the sky and soared away his great wings pumping, and Sir Theodore led them onwards towards the castle.

Just as before, Jane rode at the back beside Gunther. He did not speak.

* * *

The sky was streaked with red and purple by the time the castle came into sight. A tired cheer went up from the knights as they drew near, crossing the stone bridge and making their way up the hill towards the gates. People had gathered to welcome them back, throwing flower petals down from the battlements, singing in celebration. In the Great Hall there would be a feast, hosted by the King, to welcome back his army. Jane was just happy to see her tower come into view above them as they clattered into the courtyard. She clambered heavily down from her horse and stretched, revelling in the familiar castle air, wanting nothing more than to slip into her bed and remain there for the foreseeable future.

The wagons and knights dissipated quickly – all were relieved to be home and eager to reunite with family and friends. She turned to Gunther, who had made no move to dismount yet. He was leaning forwards, one hand pressed over his eyes, listing slightly to one side. His mood had deteriorated further during the remainder of their journey, and she could not blame him for it. She had offered several times to ask one of the men on the wagons to swap with him, but he had simply declined shortly. Now the journey seemed to have taken its toll, and she wished she had insisted.

She moved closer, reaching up to touch his arm. He dropped his hand, gazing blearily down at her. His eyes had taken on that glassy film once more, and for a moment she was back in the tent with him. She shook the memories away, smiling at him instead.

"We're home. Let's go."

He blinked at her for a few moments, and she was about to repeat herself when he moved to climb down. He staggered as he reached the ground, leaned heavily on the arm she snaked around his waist. She pulled his good arm over her shoulders without waiting for him to argue, and to her surprise he made no attempt to.

"Can you walk? We can rest for a while if you want."

He simply nodded, not specifying which suggestion he was replying to. She decided to make for his quarters, reasoning that the sooner he could be left to rest the better. She led him carefully through the little door near Smithy's workshop and up the stairs towards the knights' quarters, stopping every time he faltered. Which was often. His eyes had slid half shut by the time they reached the correct floor.

"There?" he mumbled, tightening his grip on her hand.

"Almost. Two more seconds."

He made a strange noise between a laugh and a sob and she nudged him forwards carefully, ready to stop and take his weight should he faint. She probably should have asked someone to help them, but it was too late now. They drew nearer to his room at a torturously slow pace. He had only begun to live at the castle a year or so ago, after a serious discussion with Sir Theodore and Sir Ivon, the details of which she had never been privy to. She could easily hazard a guess at what had driven him out of his family home in the docks, although she had never brought the subject up. They finally reached his room and she shoved the door open with her knee, heaving him with her, muttering encouragement as the weight on her arm grew heavier.

"We're here, that's it. Careful… alright."

The room was, thankfully, sparsely furnished. There was a desk in one corner, a set of drawers in another, and a bed in the centre. The air was chilly, but the bed had thick blankets and the single, small window faced East to greet the rising sun in the morning. She deposited him carefully on the bed and he dropped down onto it with a groan, curling in on himself. She hesitated, and then before she could change her mind quickly pulled his boots off and dragged a folded blanket at the foot of the bed up to settle it over him. There. That would do. She stepped back. The only light came from the crack in the door – his room was otherwise gloomy. She could just about see the glimmer of his eyes, the pale skin of his face and hand almost glowing in the dimness.

"Thank you," he muttered suddenly.

"It's alright." She hesitated awkwardly.

She did not want to go, to leave him in this tiny, dark, empty room. She wet her lips, considering asking him if he wanted her to stay, but she was not foolish enough to let that question out into the air. She forced a smile instead.

"Do you need anything?"

He was silent for a while, and she began to think he had fallen asleep. She was about to turn and leave him in peace when he suddenly lifted his hand. She moved over to him quietly, and took it. His skin was warm against hers, his grip pleasantly tight. He tugged at her slightly and she sat down obediently on the edge of the bed, lost as to what he was doing. One moment snapping at her, the next inviting her onto his bed – she would never understand him.

"Why did you stay?" he said, his voice low in the half-light, lethargic, half asleep. "Every time I woke, you were there at my side."

She returned his steady gaze. "Because I wanted to," she said at last, her voice cutting through the dark like a knife through butter. "Because I cared to."

He looked at her, as if considering something, as if building himself up to speak. She waited, strangely calm after all the anxiety of the day. She felt as if she had thrown down her mask, as if she had given up her secret. She was not hiding anymore. It was too late in the day and she was too tired. He drew a shaky breath.

"Will you stay now?"

He sounded pained, halting, as if waiting for her to dash his hand from hers and stalk out of the room. He had shut his eyes, as if to hide her response from himself. She looked at the sliver of light pushing through the ajar door.

"Alright."

She wasn't sure if she had spoken or not. Someone had. As if watching herself from some distance away, she got up and crossed to the door, pushed it closed, shut out the light and noise of the corridor and the returning knights. She kicked off her boots, shrugged out of her leather jerkin, left them beside the door, and then returned to the bed. She still wore her tunic, not presumptuous enough to tear off all her clothes. He had shifted over slightly, leaving room for her, his eyes still closed. She lay down carefully on top of the blanket, arranging herself just a few inches away from him, faced his still face. He still did not look up. She placed her hand beside his where it lay on the stiff mattress, almost touching, and let her own eyes closed. She listened to his body as the dusky light coming through the window darkened to silvery starlight.

**Thanks for reading.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Jane and the Dragon.**

**WARNING: Contains blood and violence, possibly some bad language.**

**Note: This is basically a fanfiction of Krya4's fanfictions. I love the way she brings the story into adulthood and thought I'd have a go at something similar. As a result this story is practically hers, only with the roles of Jane and Gunther reversed. Krya4 - you're awesome, please keep writing!**

* * *

When she awoke, her head was resting on his chest and his hand was tangled pleasantly in her hair. She lay still for a while, breathless, wondering if she had instigated the contact or he. She could not remember, but she did not care. She felt as if she had come home. His arm around her shoulders was warm and she could hear the steady, distant beat of his heart in her ear. She listened to it for a few long minutes before stirring, sorry to lose the comforting sound. He did not wake when she manoeuvred herself clear of him – his eyes were smudged with purpled rings and his skin was still unhealthily pale. She stayed a little longer, hanging on to the moment. But she could hear the castle coming to life around them, and if she stayed much longer she would find herself having to explain just why and how she had come to spend the night in his room. On his bed, no less.

Her mother would be furious.

That thought alone made her smile and almost made her stay, just to see what would follow, but she was in need of washing, changing, emerging fully from battle-state. She climbed off the bed slowly, not wishing to disturb him. She pulled on her boots and her jerkin, raked a hand through her hair, hesitated as she stood in the cool morning light. A problem had occurred to her – she could not simply walk out. If their places had been reversed and she had awoken to find herself alone… she would not know what to think. She frowned, considering and then rejecting the idea of waking him up, and then crossed to the desk. After a few minutes of searching she found a drawer of scraps of paper and a stub of a pencil. Tearing off a small corner of parchment, she drew a poorly shaped dragon and folded it into a small square. She returned to tuck the note into his loosely closed hand and then left without looking back, steeling herself not to take it back and rip it up. It seemed childish, silly, but it would do as a sign that she had not left in ill spirits.

She slipped out of his room and closed the door quietly behind her. Luckily it was early enough that castle life was only just beginning to stir. She hurried down the corridor and down the stairs into the courtyard, made her way over to her room. Her room was silent and still – someone had deposited her trunk and armour beside her door. Her belongings crowded round her and she breathed a sigh of contentment. Home. And in one piece, for the most part.

Buy the time she had washed and dressed, her damp hair weighed down by water droplets, the sun was high in the sky and she could hear movement and voices from below. She had to remind herself to replace her sword on the bedside table before she left – she had become so used to carrying it around with her that it took some effort to remind herself that there was no need for it now. Her step was light as she made her way downstairs and emerged into the courtyard. The vegetable patch and kitchen looked just as they had been before, as if the whole battle had simply been a long dream. She caught sight of long, dark hair moving in the kitchen window and quickened her pace, her heart leaping.

"Pepper!"

She heard a muffled crash, footsteps, and then finally saw Pepper herself as the other woman appeared at the kitchen door. Her face lit up and she ran forwards, stretching out her arms. Jane embraced her tightly, grinning widely.

"Jane! Where have you _been _we missed you at the feast!"

Jane released her, still unable to hide her joy. Pepper was looking her up and down, clearly examining her well-being. Satisfied, she met Jane's gaze and reached out to grasp her hands tightly.

"Where _were _you?" she repeated earnestly. "The King wanted to congratulate you and the Princess was positively desperate to see you."

"Sorry, Pepper," Jane said guiltily. "I was… distracted. Gunther was in need of help, and afterwards… I was very tired."

She knew how inadequate her response was, but Pepper's face flooded instantly with understanding and she nodded, pulling Jane with her into the kitchen. The comforting roar of the fire filled Jane's ears as Pepper ushered her over to one of the low wooden tables to sit down. The kitchen girl hurried over to her pot over the fire, drawing a bowl of hot porridge to set before Jane.

"Of course, of course. Rake told me what happened. Is he very sick? Rake said that he lost more blood than he had ever seen, although he is only a gardener and perhaps not as well versed in battle…"

"It was bad," Jane replied grimly, seizing a spoon as Pepper's voice trailed off. "He was unwell for some time, he still is. The journey back was very difficult. I was worried that he would-"

She broke off, noting the smile on Pepper's face and realising that she may have said too much. She felt her cheeks growing hot and quickly bent her head to her porridge as the other girl sat down across the table from her.

"Jester said you had… been distressed."

There was little point in arguing. Jane lowered her spoon, giving up on her feigned interest in her food. Pepper did not look at all smug – instead she seemed sympathetic, concerned.

"I could not help it," she replied heavily, keeping her voice quiet should they be interrupted. "You did not see him, Pepper. He looked like… like death. And he was _different_… somehow."

She gave up, unable to make sense of what she was getting at. Pepper pushed a cup of hot tea across the table towards her.

"How?"

"I don't know," Jane said helplessly, meeting her soft gaze. "I cannot explain it. It is as if I saw something in him that I had always known was there, but never…"

Again, she could not finish. Pepper smiled ruefully at her, pushing back a stray lock of her fine, dark hair. There was a sort of _knowing_ in her face that caught at Jane's attention and made her lift her eyebrow questioningly.

"What do you know?"

Pepper let out a short laugh. "Who does _not _know, Jane? Apart from you, apparently."

"What are you talking about?"

"Petal, we have all seen how he is with you."

"How he 'is'?"

"The way he looks at you when he thinks that no one is watching? Do you not even know that he has taken to watching for your safe return if you ever miss dinner due to patrolling with Dragon? Smithy always catches him waiting in the courtyard, making up excuses..."

"That is hardly-"

"...and just the other month, after that _incident-_"

"Incident?" Jane interrupted, frowning. "What incident, what are you talking about?"

Pepper hesitated. "We were not going to tell you, but… Smithy and Jester were out in town one night, and one of the knights was… well, being rather foul-mouthed about your high status, being a female Knight."

Jane cast her eyes skywards. "Most likely drunk. I do not care what they say about me, Pepper, you must not feel that you have to protect me from these fools."

"Yes, well… Gunther was also there and he… well, over-reacted. According to Smithy and Jester."

_Over-reacted? _Jane had a sudden rush of memory of the Merchant's ugly words and her own blinding fury, and felt that she had some idea of what Smithy and Jester had witnessed at the tavern. Only Gunther had not been in a medical environment, and subsequently would have had no reason to hold back… Her eyebrows jumped far up her forehead as she suddenly remembered him turning up in the courtyard some time ago with a darkening bruise on his jaw and bruised knuckles.

"Get in a fight with that stranger in your room again, Gunther?" she had teased as he retrieved his bow and arrow. "I will explain again – it is a mirror, you see, that ugly creature you keep seeing is simply you."

"So, you do know of mirrors, then," he had retorted, slinging his bow onto his back. "Perhaps you should get yourself one – maybe then you can address that monster on your head you call hair."

And that had been all either of them had said on the topic. Now, she felt like squirming with shame. Why, why had someone not told her that he had been defending her honour the very night before? Not that he needed to – she was perfectly fine to fight her own battles, although it would be just like him to storm in and take the bull by the horns, just as he had during their negotiations just before the battle a few days ago… She realised that Pepper was watching her, waiting for an answer.

"I… Well, if you suspected he… he… felt like that, why did you not say?" Jane demanded.

"Would you have listened?"

Jane shook her head, relenting. She would have laughed until her sides hurt, just as she had when they were children. And yet, here she was. She spooned the rest of her porridge into her mouth, putting the subject to rest, and Pepper let it drop.

"How is Rake?" she asked, pushing her empty bowl away and reaching for her tea.

"Much better now that he is back in his garden," Pepper replied, smiling widely. "He was almost up all night chattering away to his herbs and his vegetables. I think they missed him."

As Jane laughed a cry broke out in the courtyard, and she recognised Sir Ivon's voice. Muttering a quick thanks to Pepper for the breakfast, she rose from the table and hurried up the steps and out into the morning sun. The large knight was just emerging from the courtyard, his voice lowering as he caught sight of her.

"There you are, lass. The King must see you, immediately."

She nodded and fell into step beside him, heading for the throne room. She did not like his tone – he sounded grim, unhappy, and his face was lined with concern. Her heart sank. Surely things had not gone wrong already; they had only just returned from battle! She quickened her step, climbing the stairs to the great all two at a time, and pushed her way through the great doors to find King Caradoc, the Queen, Sir Theodore and her own father gathered around a map that was stretched on the table, all with distinctly sombre attitudes. She greeted her father warmly, having not seen him the night before, and inclined her head respectfully to the King and Queen, glancing at the map.

"What is wrong, your Highness?"

"Lady Jane," the King gestured to the table, his countenance serious. "We have received a message from one of our scouts at the border. He claims that what is left of the enemy army is re-grouping, possibly intending to attack some smaller settlements on the outskirts of our lands."

Jane looked in horror at Sir Theodore, who nodded gravely. She stared down at the point indicated on the map.

"But so soon! How can they…"

"They must be desperate," Sir Theodore explained. "If they had any sense, they would return to their own lands. There are only a few of their numbers left, but they will still pose a threat to our farmers and citizens who live nearer to the border."

"Then it is just senseless violence?" Jane asked, looking from her mentor to the King and back again. "It is barbaric."

"Perhaps a retaliation," Sir Ivon said darkly. "We should have pursued them and eliminated them when we had the chance."

"Let it not be said that we do not show mercy when we can," the King spoke out sharply, frowning. "If we had not let the survivors escape we would be no better than them."

"But Dragon chased them as far as he could," Jane said, still absorbing the shock of the information. "Why would they return, only to face him again?"

"Perhaps that is exactly what they wish," Sir Theodore murmured. "Perhaps they want another chance to best the beast that defeated them."

Jane remained silent. She could not imagine how they hoped to beat Dragon – the only thing that could break his skin was weaponry forged in Dragon flame, which she doubted they could have sourced in the few days it had been since the battle. But perhaps they did not have as much knowledge of Dragons as Kippernia – perhaps they thought they could overwhelm him with sheer numbers. She looked up, realising that the group was watching her, and suddenly understood why they had called her in.

"You want us to go after them," she said, directing her question at the King. "You want Dragon and I to finish them."

The King gave a slow, regal nod. Jane glanced at her father, who looked distinctly unhappy – his lips were pursed tightly together, his old face tense. Sir Theodore cleared his throat, drawing her attention to himself.

"We considered sending our knights out once more, but many of them were wounded in battle and those that were not are weary from travelling. No doubt you are, too, but Dragon… he appeared in high spirits yesterday and last night. We believe that their numbers will be no more than fifty or so."

"I understand."

Their plan made sense. The numbers of trained knights who were still able to fight were small, and they could not recruit villagers again to track down and chase a large group of angry soldiers. She and Dragon would be able to move fast, discovering them from the air and driving them further away from the Kingdom, this time with the hopes that they would not return. If all went well, she could be home again within a couple of weeks.

"You need not dispatch them all," the King was saying. "If you could chase them beyond the mountains, they surely would not return."

"I believe it would work, Sire," she said. "I will put the plan to Dragon, but I am confident that we can fulfil your orders."

She sensed an air of relief descend upon the group, as if they had expected her to refuse. Only her father was disappointed, his mouth turning firmly downwards.

"But you will be alone, Jane," he broke in, unable to remain silent any longer. "Surely, Sire, there must be someone who could accompany her-"

"Dragon would not fly as well with two people. And besides, he is more than enough company for me." She lifted her chin, returning her father's worried gaze. "I will be extremely careful, father, I promise."

She turned to Sir Theodore, whose face showed a strange mixture of sadness and pride. She offered him a slight bow, her mind set, aware of the seriousness of her task.

"With your leave, I will contact Dragon immediately to consult him."

Her mentor nodded, dismissing her, and she turned on her heel and strode out into the open air. Her steps carried her swiftly up to her tower, where she snatched up her sword and climbed the stairs to her rooftop. As she sent out the call, she felt an icy resolve settling into her veins. She had hoped to have been done with warfare for now, for ever, but her sense of duty trumped her distaste for violence. She would fulfil her duty and protect the Kingdom, even if it meant riding out to battle alone.

A green speck appeared high above her, and she smiled despite herself. After all, she would not be alone at all.

* * *

They decided to set off after dinner, giving Dragon a few hours to graze and build his energy and her time to pack her things and consult Sir Theodore on the best course of action. At least this time she would be able to wear her full armour – there would be no one else to protect aside from Dragon. She packed lightly, bringing only essentials, aware that any extra weight would only mean more work for Dragon. The rest of the day was spent in Sir Theodore's rooms, examining the terrain and discussing tactics. By the time she descended to the kitchens for dinner, her mind was buzzing as if filled with bees.

The others were sitting round at the lantern-lit table in the gardens when she arrived, and she was glad to see them. She was all too aware that she had neglected them over the past few days, and was grateful that she would have the opportunity to wish them well before departing again. She hooked her legs over the bench and settled down next to Jester as Rake helped Pepper lay out the dishes, happy at last to engage in small talk and chatter.

It was with a great shock and surge of heat in her cheeks that she saw Gunther turn the corner, Smithy walking close beside him.

She jerked up to her feet, tangling one leg over the bench in her haste. She had not expected to see him on his feet so soon, particularly after the journey the day before. And indeed, he did not look much healthier than he had done that morning, despite smiling at Pepper as she rushed to fetch another plate. He was struggling with movement, still holding his side, and he muttered a quiet 'thank you' when she hurried to fetch him a chair. She hovered for a while before sitting back down at the table, finding herself unable to speak. Everything she wanted to ask him seemed suddenly more difficult in front of the others. She tried to assess him visually instead – the way he leaned on the table suggested he was still in a good deal of pain; his face was still drawn and lined with exhaustion from the day before; but his gaze was alert, and it moved now to meet hers, as if feeling her probing his appearance. She held it for a few moments, trying to communicate her questions silently. A small smile quirked at his lips.

"I grew tired of looking at my ceiling," he explained, his voice still quieter and tenser than usual. "And the castle physician advised me to eat. So."

She tore her gaze away from him, reaching instead to fiddle with her knife. "I am glad you are feeling better."

"I am glad you came, Sir Knight," Jester put in, rescuing her from her sudden rush of awkwardness. "I have not yet had the chance to thank you for rescuing me on the battlefield. Without you, I would surely be a very dead damsel in distress."

Gunther simply looked at him for a moment, blinking, as if uncertain of how to respond. He cleared his throat, shooting a brief glance at Jane, who had once again found herself staring at him despite her best efforts.

"No need, Jester, seeing as you saved my life in return. We will call it square."

"No, not square! Circular, if anything!" Jester cried out, rising from his seat. "None of you realise, you did not see. I was surrounded, on all sides, by monstrous enemies armed with axes and swords and mace – and just as I was saying my prayers, I find myself swept out of the way of death and in springs Gunther…" He had one foot on the table now, dragging Smithy forwards out of his seat to play the assailant, raising an imaginary sword. He pretended to parry, to slice Smithy's head from his shoulders. "And then, as he beats foe after foe, he tells me – look lively, Jester, your enemy is not so polite to introduce himself to you before he slits your neck!"

The others laughed obediently as Jester feigned shaking someone's hand and then getting stabbed violently. Pepper, returning to the table with her hands full of food, shot him a warning look.

"Jester, please! Nobody wants to think about fighting now!"

Jane swallowed back an agreement, moving mechanically to reach for a piece of bread. Jester's story had entertained the others, but all it had done for her was remind her of all that blood she had seen spilling out of Gunther and onto the floor, of the way he had slowly retreated from her as she scrabbled to stop the bleeding, to get him to look at her, just to say anything to show that he had not died in her very hands. A quick glance at Gunther told her that he did not seem to feel the same; he was wearing a bemused smile, his eyebrow quirked, shaking his head at Jester's exaggerated story.

She ate quietly, happy to listen to the chatter of the others, acutely aware of Gunther's hand resting on the table near to hers. She felt strangely attuned to his body – when he shifted forwards to rest his elbow on the table, she understood that it was because sitting up would be paining his side. When he only smiled rather than laughing at Jester's stories or jokes, she knew that it would be to avoid jerking his stitches. When he skated a hand briefly over his face as Pepper began to collect the plates, she wondered if it was because his head was beginning to hurt, or if he was tired… She had to continually force herself to stop second-guessing his every move. She was turning into her mother, fussing over every detail possible…

"What did Sir Ivon want with you today, Jane?" Pepper said, pulling her back into the group's conversation as she set out a pot of tea. "He looked very serious."

Jane hesitated. She had tried to leave it as long as she could before disclosing the fact that she would be leaving that night – she knew it would worry them all. Before Gunther had turned up she had even considered leaving him a note instead of explaining the matter to him, terrified of his reaction. She knew how she would feel if their places had been reversed. They were all looking at her, waiting, and Pepper's smile was fading with her prolonged silence.

"Jane?" Jester prompted, frowning. "Not bad news, I hope?"

She took a deep breath. "I'm afraid so. Some of the enemy fled from the battlefield and have regrouped some distance away. One of our scouts sent word today that they plan to lay siege to farms and homes near to the border."

She sensed Gunther stiffen beside her, and did not dare look at him. Smithy, Jester, Rake and Pepper were exchanging alarmed glances – Pepper had placed a protective hand on Rake's shoulder, as if to pull him into hiding should Jane announce that their armies were recruiting once more.

"What does Sir Theodore say?" Smithy asked. "What has the King decided?"

Jane returned his gaze steadily. "Dragon and I are to seek out the remaining enemy and either drive them away for good or ensure they are unable to return. We leave tonight, in fact."

They stared at her as if she had just announced that she was planning to sell one of her arms to the Merchant. She sighed and reached for some tea, shrugging slowly.

"It is our only option, after all. I am sorry I did not mention it earlier – truthfully, I wanted to enjoy some time with you all before dampening your spirits."

"You are to go alone."

Gunther's voice sounded like a quiet fire, about to flare up into an explosion. She looked at him. His face was stony, his eyes flickering with blatant anger. His hand had balled into a fist on the table. She kept her voice equally as stern, narrowing her gaze.

"With _Dragon._ Yes."

"No."

"What?"

He was almost trembling with fury. He swept his ferocious gaze across the others before returning it to her, as if demanding support. They stayed silent, although their disapproval of the plan was tangible.

"You cannot be serious. They plan to send you out there to fight them, with no back-up, with no-one to send word should you need aid-"

"They are not throwing a baby into a wolf-pit, Gunther, I am a fully trained Knight with a fire-breathing Dragon at my side!"

"I am not disputing your abilities, I am pointing out that you will be far outnumbered! How is Dragon supposed to protect you if you get separated? How can he protect you from being surrounded if you are forced to attack on foot?"

"We will plan our attacks carefully. We will work as a team. I am not _scared."_

"You _should_ be!" Gunther's face was contorted with fury, his eyes searing burning holes in her heart. "Jane, do you have any idea what they will do to you if they catch you? They are most likely attempting to lure you out – Jane, you are a novelty to them, a prize to be won and ruined."

She could feel her temper twitching over the edge. He was voicing every concern she had held from the moment she had left the throne room, but all of them were meaningless. What was the point of discussing what may or may not happen if things went wrong? She had no choice – she had been asked to defend her home by her King, and she would not decline. To her relief, she could hear the soft _wh-whump _that signalled Dragon's approach – it must be nearly time to depart. She pushed herself up to her feet, turning her gaze on the others. Pepper was staring at her with wide eyes, her lower lip trembling slightly. Jane shot her a smile that she did not quite believe in.

"I will be alright. I will be back before you know it."

"_No._"

She stepped over the bench and strode towards the courtyard, aware of Gunther rising to his feet behind her. He shoved his chair away with surprising force, storming after her as fast as he could.

"Jane, _Jane. _I am speaking with Sir Theodore about this, he will never allow it-"

"He _has _allowed it, Gunther, and he will be here soon to see me off."

Her pack was waiting for her in the courtyard along with her armour – she had carried it all down earlier to avoid prolonging the goodbyes. She had planned it because she had assumed it would be difficult to leave her friends so soon after returning, because she had hoped to wait until the last possible minute to go. Now she was glad of the quick escape. She began to pull her armour on over her tunic, glancing up as Dragon alighted on the battlements. He looked at her, his eyes narrowing at Gunther's raised voice. She realised that Sir Theodore must have arrived – Gunther was directing his torrent of anger at somebody else.

"No romantic goodbyes then?" Dragon murmured.

She ignored him, focussing on adjusting her armour. When she was set she slung her pack over her shoulder and turned to face the scene behind her. Pepper, Jester and Rake were hovering awkwardly near the vegetable patch. Closer to her, Gunther was locked in a heated debate with Sir Theodore, Smithy hovering just behind him as if about to try to calm him. His face looked even paler than before, his frame shaking slightly as he tried to pull himself up to his full height. Dragon crawled down into the courtyard behind her, sniffing slightly.

"Ready, Jane?"

"Almost."

She stepped towards her mentor. Sir Theodore turned to meet her, held out his hand in farewell. She took it.

"… cannot make her do this!" Gunther was shouting, refusing to give in. "How can you ask it of her? It is too dangerous, do you not understand what they will do to her? _Sir Theodore!"_

Her mentor turned to him, resigned, quiet. "Jane is extremely capable, Sir Gunther, I have no doubt that we will soon see her safely returning to the castle."

Gunther turned towards her desperately, snatching at her hand as she turned to go. His grip was so tight that it hurt. She looked back at him, found him breathing heavily, sweat standing out on his brow. He was exerting too much energy and panic – she tried to return his gaze steadily, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Gunther, stop," she said, lowering her voice. "You will hurt yourself. I will come back, I _will-"_

"Jane, no. _No. _I cannot let you go."

"You have no say in the matter."

_"Jane!" _he was almost wild with despair, pulling her back towards him, his jaw working desperately. He suddenly reached for her with his other hand, his fingers diving into her hair and coming to rest against her cheek. It was like the final clutch of a drowning man. His eyes tore at her like physical claws and she found herself hesitating, aware that he was becoming more unsteady on his feet with every moment.

"Please," he said, his voice suddenly quiet. "Do not do this to me. Do not ask me to live and then throw yourself away."

And for a moment, she really thought she was going to stay. She thought she was going to melt into him and remain within his chest forever. But she could almost feel Dragon's eyes on her, and she knew she could not. She reached for his hand and pulled it gently down, loathing the loss of it.

"I'm sorry," she said, and she meant it, more than anything she had ever said before.

She turned away before she could feel her heart break, strode rapidly to Dragon's side. She stepped onto his leg and he lifted her up onto his back. Gunther's screams reached her ears – he was howling her name like a wounded animal. Smithy had come forwards to restrain him. From the corner of her eye, as Dragon lifted his great wings, she saw him crumble as his body betrayed him – Smithy kept him upright as he sank to his knees, still shouting for her rawly, still trying… And then she was shooting up into the cold air, and Dragon's scales were warm beneath her, and the thick clouds peppered her face with water droplets that felt like flecks of ice.

**Thanks for reading.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Jane and the Dragon.**

**Note: Final chapter! Hope you enjoyed the ride, massive thank you to people who reviewed.**

* * *

Two weeks to the day Jane and her overgrown lizard had disappeared into the thronging, dark night, Gunther's pale grey eyes searched the evening sky. The winter sun hung low against the horizon, sending vibrant tongues of pale orange into the darkening expanse above his head, broken by smeared patches of cloud. Every bird wheeling across the sun's fading embers had his heart beating foolishly, had his hand reaching for the window to pull himself up, but his tactless gaze would signal his mistake every time and he would lean back on the bench once more, feeling his face grow tight and his chest empty. Each time he would scold himself furiously - Dragon was obviously a different size and shape to a faraway bird. His desperation was driving him to madness.

Desperation certainly seemed the word for it, although he had never placed such an irrational feeling in his capacity before.

The days after she had left had been hellish. He had managed to pull out the fine stitches in his side whilst struggling against Smithy and screaming at her retreating back - he hadn't even noticed until he returned to his room. Indeed, it had taken him some time to summon the will to leave the courtyard. His vision was filled with her bright green eyes, with that twisted, burning gaze she had fixed him with as he pleaded with her. For a moment, he had been so sure that she was going to agree, that she was going to fall into his arms and stay with him. But she was Jane. And, of course, Jane would never do such a thing. She had stepped calmly away from him with unbearable serenity and grace, and the loss of her warm skin beneath his hands had driven him mad. And even when Dragon carried her off into the darkness, he had been so sure she would return. He had never screamed so loud in his life, and she must have heard him. She _must _return.

Only the knowledge that the rest of the castle staff were standing around him, looking on in horror, made him bite back his cries. Still, he had stayed crouched there in the courtyard for another hour or so, clinging to that last hope that she would change her mind, before the cold realisation washed over him like the evening tide on the shore. She was not coming back. Perhaps she never would come back. Perhaps Dragon would return hours or days or months later with her bloodied carcass. With the image heavy in his mind he had risen, declining Smithy's offers to help - the other man had been keeping an eye on him from his workshop, which he had barely noticed then but felt a strange gratitude for now - and returned slowly to his rooms. The scrap of paper and the smudged, sketchy dragon was still lying on his bed where he had left it, and he had looked at it for a long time before he felt warmth seeping over his thigh and became aware of just how much his wound had bled. He put his hand over it numbly, sat down on the edge of the bed, the drawing crumpled in his other hand. He remembered thinking that he should be careful not to get blood on it.

He supposed it must have been some ugly cosmic joke that his luck struck then rather than earlier, and Sir Ivon knocked on his door a while later to check on him. He let the older knight fuss around him, tentatively pulling aside his bandages and demanding to know what happened and never mind, just stay still and he'd get the court physician and not to move a muscle. Gunther had already begun to feel somewhat detached from himself - it was the most logical plan, after all. When his mother hand died he had carefully stepped apart from the seething, eroding grief in his chest and let blankness settle over him. When his father had first struck him across the face he had done the same thing. And now it seemed only right that, now she had gone, he follow the traditional route. When the physician arrived and gave him something thick and unpleasant to drink, he gulped it down and let the dark fog rush through his mind.

Over the next week he had stayed in bed, as per the physician's orders. Apparently he was 'too agitated' to resume his duties. He did not feel agitated. He felt... static. He lay still and watched the sun rise and set through the small window above his head. The nights felt oddly more active - he would see her, see blood, see their enemies rushing over her like a flood, and he would wake in a frenzy. After four nights he managed to persuade the physician to give him more of the thick, unpleasant drink, and the dreams were somewhat muffled.

He could not blame her, as much as he wanted to.

Yes, she had been stupid, and reckless, and arrogant, and careless, and selfless, and terrible - but she had to go. If she had not gone, she would not be Jane. If she had not left him screaming and swearing and crying in the dirt courtyard, she would not be everything that he felt so horribly strongly about. He still could not pretend that it hadn't cut him to the bone to be left like that, to not even have had a _chance _to explain himself, to ask her what she had meant when she had looked at him and said _'Because I cared to', _as if it wasn't the most intimate and personal thing anyone had ever said to him. Or when she had let him put his arms around her on that first night and simply breathe her in, as if he had never understood what air was until that moment. She had just... gone. Her absence loomed over him, fuller and larger with every passing second. Gone, with only 'I'm sorry'.

After a while of his mind circling in this manner like vultures around a corpse he had driven himself out of his room. He still could not train - his arm was still too weak to allow him to pull a bowstring taught or wield a sword - but he could go downstairs at meal times and settle himself on the bench in the corridor overlooking the courtyard to watch the skies. Which was where he spent most of his time now. He had brought a book with him in order to show a pretence of sitting there to read, but it had seemed such a pathetic facade that he usually ended up leaving the book abandoned on the bench beside him. He would sit up as long as he could until his body screamed for sleep or Sir Theodore passed by and gave him one of those looks, filled with just enough reproach to send him back to his room.

Two weeks to the day she had gone, as the sky darkened to a deep, blood-red at the horizon and a black-purple mouth overhead, Gunther caught sight of a slowly approaching shape. He sat up, leaned forwards on the bench, watching as it drew nearer. He heard a door slam somewhere nearby, heard running footsteps, a few brief shouts. Gunther rose slowly to his feet, crossed the corridor to the window, remaining close to one of the archways. He had thought about it over those long days and nights - he had always imagined that he would rush down into the courtyard as Dragon landed, fall to his knees, take her cold body in his arms and feel the world crash down around him. Or he would rush down into the courtyard and Dragon would barely have landed and she would be there, and she would look at him with that laughing smile she had thrown him since she was eleven years old. He had not expected to be so... frozen. He gripped the stone window ledge with one hand, his eyes narrowing as Dragon came into view, growing from a black speck to a green, glinting body, became aware of Sir Theodore appearing in the courtyard alongside Jester, Smithy, Pepper, Rake, Sir Ivon... Dragon angled downwards, and a flash of scarlet met Gunther's eyes, and his legs almost trembled with the shuddering sigh that swept through him. Dragon had landed, his scales marred with dark marks, his underbelly scarred, and Smithy was reaching out to help Jane climb down... He heard the high tones of her voice among the others, and his heart shook.

She was alive. She was there.

He still could not move. He watched in a teetering silence as she spoke to the others, her tired face lined with dirt and blood, he watched the slightly awkward way she carried herself, as if one arm was not quite well. _Bruised ribs, _he thought, as if speaking to himself from a distance. _She fell off the frog. _She was smiling, shaking her head at something Jester had said, and then all at once she was going. Walking with Sir Theodore towards the stairway to her tower, still talking quietly, and Dragon was following Smithy towards the stables, and the courtyard was suddenly empty and silent. And Gunther stood there, staring at the spot where she had landed, like a word that could not decide whether or not it should be spoken.

* * *

That night he did not speak a word to anyone.

He spent the rest of the evening hovering between his room, the corridor and the courtyard doorway. From the doorway he watched her room light up with candlelight and made out flickering shadows on the walls. Below in the courtyard he could hear Smithy's voice and Dragon's low growl filtering up from the stables - Dragon, it seemed would be sleeping at the castle tonight. He wondered briefly if the beast was injured, but dismissed the thought almost immediately. Jane would have insisted on staying with him, and he certainly would not have been able to fly if he were in any danger. Smithy went to and fro from the kitchen for a while before retiring to his forge. As he worked Jane's mother appeared, hurrying across the castle grounds and up the stairs, and soon afterwards Sir Theodore took his leave of her quarters. Lady Adeline remained in Jane's room for a good two hours before emerging, carrying a basket of something. Gunther watched her from the corridor as she disappeared into the castle for a few minutes. Almost as soon as she was out of sight, Jester emerged from the shadows of the courtyard and hurried to the stairs to Jane's tower with quick, silent footsteps. He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder before dashing up them. Shadows moved on the fragment of wall Gunther could make out through Jane's window. Soon after, Lady Adeline re-appeared, visited the kitchen for a brief spell, and returned to Jane's room laden down with a tray and accompanied by Jane's father. Gunther watched them climb the stairs once more, slightly agitated by Jester's prolonged, unaccompanied stay in Jane's rooms. Of course, he had always known that they were close, but surely he was not about to have Jane slip away from him and into Jester's hands... unless she had preferred him the whole time, and her attention to him had only been a courtesy, or a reflection of some personal guilt... He tried to push such thoughts from his mind, comforted by the fact that Jester did not depart her tower upon Lady Adeline and Chamberlain Milton. Unless he was hiding somewhere in the room, waiting for them to leave...

He decided to stop his thoughts there.

Gunther's side was beginning to protest and he was forced to sit down on the bench across the corridor for a while, his weakness doing nothing to improve his mood. The damn wound was the reason he had been unable to follow Jane on her task in the first place, and its continuing aches and pains had his temper flaring up within moments. He could just make out her window from his seated position, could see as the candles burned out and were replaced by new ones. Time crawled on and the night grew darker, until her window was the last flickering beacon in the blackness, casting a small rounded patch on the courtyard floor. No-one came to light the candles in the corridor and Gunther did not bother, instead sitting there in the darkness, his eyes trained on the glow ahead of him. The air grew cooler and stiller. He pulled himself up to his feet and crossed to the window again after another few hours, aware of his body's weariness. But he could not leave yet, not yet.

Finally, after his legs had grown stiff and his side and shoulder were both aching insistently, forcing him to hold on to the window to steady himself, figures appeared on the stairs leading to her tower. He could just make them out against the inky night - Jester went first, carrying a lantern, and in seemingly high spirits. He was talking in a low, enthusiastic voice to Lady Adeline, who carried the empty tray. Chamberlain Milton brought up the rear, his old face tired, his hands clasped behind his back. The trio made their way back towards the castle, through the silent grounds and away. Gunther turned his gaze to Jane's window once more, the sight of an un-reproached Jester departing from the tower filling him with relief. Even as he did so, she appeared in the small space. From the distance between them he could only just make her out, her face dark against the candlelight behind her, which lit her hair like a fiery lion's mane. He could see a thin line on her face, running across one cheek - a cut? It did not seem deep, but he could not tell from so far away. He felt himself pulling back against the window frame, retreating into the shadows like a coward. It was, truly, highly improper for him to be eyeing her window like a burglar. Worse, since she was currently only wearing a white nightgown. Perhaps the closest thing to a dress he would ever see on her. It mad her look strange, almost unearthly. She was leaning on the windowsill, like him, holding her side. He wanted to shout across the courtyard, demand to know how and why she was hurt, but he kept his mouth tightly shut. She was looking his way, and for one terrifying moment he thought she had seen him, but then he realised that her gaze was directed down towards the stables. She was only there for a short while, as if checking something, and then she was drawing away and closing the wooden shutters, and he was plunged into darkness as the light from her room disappeared. He stood there for a while longer, as if waiting for a signal, and then finally withdrew to his own room and settled down on his bed.

There was no question of going over to her tower. She would be tired after her journey, she would not want to see him. And he did not know what he would say, or what he expected her to say in return. Instead he spent an uncomfortable night in his own room, rising early to retrieve some breakfast before the others got up. Pepper, sleepily making arrangements for the royal family and the others, did not say much. He went into the courtyard afterwards and rested a hand on his bow, considering feigning practise to have an excuse to stay, but knowing that his shoulder would not bear the strain he was forced back up to his room to wait. Her tower was silent anyway, her shutters closed, and the stable doors were also firmly shut to give Dragon some peace.

If it hadn't been for the King, he doubted he would have ever seen her again due to sheer apprehension.

As it was, Caradoc was quick to announce a feast that night to celebrate the end of the war, and to welcome home the last of the knights of the Kingdom. Gunther was simultaneously relieved and frustrated. For one, he would be able to see her within the crowd of the guests, and he would be able to gauge her health and attitude towards him without having to approach her directly. For another, they would not be able to truly _say _anything. They would dance around one another with petty small talk and be interrupted time and again by the guests or by Jester or by Pepper, and he would have to be polite and proper and _silent... _

It was the best chance he was going to get, really. He had to take it.

* * *

The feast was everything he had expected. The Great Hall was decorated in the country's colours and the King and Queen glided across the space between dances, greeting and bestowing and introducing as they went. There was a small band of musicians in one corner and tables spread out at one end of the Hall, always filled with people, while Pepper and her assistants scurried to and fro with course after course. Wine flowed and the chatter of the guests filled the huge room like a tidal wave, only ever subsiding when someone giddily rose to their feet and banged on the table and raised their goblet to the kingdom, or the knights, or the royal highnesses, or the feast, or something equally important. These offhand remarks were, for the most part, unrehearsed and more often than not slurred through drunken lips, but were always met with cheers from the attentive audience.

The King had started the feast with his own, far more composed speech, in which he had praised his knights and their country's allies for their sacrifices and their work. He had singled out Jane in particular, at which point Gunther had finally caught sight of her. He had arrived quietly alongside Sir Ivon and remained on the outskirts of the minglers until they had been seated for the King's arrival and welcome. He had looked for her red hair, but had been disappointed. She was not sitting with he and Sir Ivon at the table, either, and it was only when the King gestured that he saw her - she had entered the room late, with her mother and father flanking her, and had been standing at the back with them until the speech was over. She was wearing a tunic of deep blue, embroidered at the hem and sleeves, and with a high collar. He had not seen it before - perhaps it was a new compromise with her mother, an alternative to her knight's tunic. Her hair had been pulled back into one long braid. She straightened as the eyes of the court turned on her, inclined her head with a smile to the King's praise. Her smile made the cut on her cheek bend slightly, like some odd second smile, and Gunther noticed for the first time a pale bruise on her jaw. But her posture was good, carefully avoiding any indication of injury, and her face seemed open and joyful as she approached the table with her parents. She was seated with them, far away from him, and he tried to ignore the fact that she had not looked at him.

He was distracted by Sir Ivon letting out a cheer and clapping him on his good shoulder. Apparently the King had said something of merit regarding himself, and he scrambled for a moment before bringing himself back to the moment. He should have expected it - this was his first feast after the war, too, since he had not attended the last one. King Caradoc was proud of his King's Guard - of course he would mention each of his two highest ranking knights. Completely lost as to what the King could have found to compliment - he had, after all, been carried off the battlefield unconscious rather than in triumph - Gunther hurriedly stood and bowed, waiting for the King to move on before resuming his seat. Sir Ivon nudged him with a wide grin, pushed a cup of wine towards him. He took a glance towards Jane, but her gaze was directed at the King.

The feast was brought underway and the Hall filled with the roar of music and conversation, and Gunther found himself grateful to listen to Sir Ivon's many battle stories as he waited for the evening to be over. Already he was regretting coming, although he could hardly have refused this time. Somehow, being close to her and still making no contact was even worse than waiting for her in the corridor the night before. It was as if they were both deliberately ignoring one another. He tried not to look to often, but he was certain she had not turned her attention his way once in the evening. The dancing began, and she was pulled off by the Princess, and he remained beside Sir Ivon with the group of knights who had congregated to exchange stories. He had just decided that it seemed an appropriate time to slip away when he felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to see Pepper, holding a jug of wine with both hands, bending down towards him. He shook his head slightly.

"Thank you, no."

"Wait!" the girl hissed back, remaining where she was. "I think Jane is tired."

He blinked at her. Obviously Jane was tired. He felt his eyebrows drawing into a cold frown and attempted to soften his features. Pepper, although always shooting him irritating, knowing glances, was always kind to him and far more talkative than the others. She had always spoken to him when they had walked on past with nothing more than a nod. He had a suspicion that she knew more than he - and perhaps even Jane - did regarding their personal emotions. So he sighed through his nose and twisted fully on the bench, careful of his side.

"She is tired," he repeated. "I see."

Pepper cast her eyes skywards. "I think she will retire soon, Sir Gunther," she said, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.

Before he could reach for any comprehension of her words, she had moved on to Sir Ivon and was offering him wine. He thanked her, despite his confusion, and turned his gaze to the dancers and the crowd of spectators. He had not seen Jane since the start of the feast, and his uncertainty had kept him from seeking her out. She was not among the dancers - unsurprisingly - and he could not see her hair among the crowd. He muttered a curse. If she had worn it loose he would have seen her in an instant. Tamed hair was alien on her. He returned to Pepper's words, ran through them once more. And then hit upon a suspicion - had it been some sort of message? Had Jane wanted Pepper to tell him that she was leaving soon? Or more likely Pepper simply wanted him to know that he was missing his chance...

_She will retire soon..._

Understanding hit him at last and he rose swiftly from the table. She was retiring soon, and true to custom, since she was technically still _Lady _Jane, someone would offer to escort her to her room. Her parents may do so, or otherwise... He excused himself from Sir Ivon's current story, the older man's reproachful shouts bouncing off his ears as he strode away towards the crowds of people. She was no longer sitting at the table, which meant that she must be standing talking to someone. He wove his way through the guests, his eye fixing on every blue fabric or flash of deep bronze within sight. People kept reaching out to stop him, forcing him to pause here and there to return a greeting or exchange a few pleasantries before moving on. He passed the musicians, his pace slowing, straightening to glance over the heads of the crowd - and abruptly, there she was. She was over by the archway leading to the grounds, listening to something the Princess was saying, her mother by her side. He began to make his way over, barely refraining from shoving his way through the slow groups of guests. His ears snatched at their words as he drew nearer. She did look tired, despite the fact that she was still smiling as the Princess spoke. She was placing her weight more on one side than the other, somewhat gingerly.

"But you _must _stay a little longer," the Princess was imploring. "We still have to sing, to welcome back the knights!"

"Truly, Princess, I cannot," Jane said ruefully. "Although this feast is perhaps the grandest I have seen, I must visit Dragon."

"And get some rest," Lady Adeline put in.

Gunther could almost see Jane bristling at her mother's concern and fought down a smirk. She had not noticed him coming yet, her attention on Lavina's disappointed face.

"Yes, mother. But we will speak tomorrow, I promise. For now, I'll take my leave-"

"Good evening, Princess, Lady Adeline, Lady Jane."

His voice sounded strange to him - he felt as if it was the first time he had spoken in several years. He cleared his throat as the small group turned towards him, returning his greeting. He looked at her, found her gaze meeting his at last, and he felt his mouth turn instantly dry. He could not decipher her expression. If she turned him down, at least he would know her feelings. He could not bring himself to paste one of those cheerful, chatty smiles over his face, but he tried to make his tone friendly as he spoke.

"Congratulations, Jane. I hear you have saved the Kingdom."

Jane's cheeks reddened slightly and she huffed, shook her head. "No, not-"

"She will not be able to tell the tale again tonight, Sir Gunther," Lady Adeline cut in, even as the Princess nodded fiercely in contradiction of Jane's words. "I'm afraid Jane was just about to retire."

"I see." He watched her green eyes flickering, watched her hands folding and unfolding before her. "Perhaps I could escort you to your rooms. If, of course, Lady Adeline is content for me to."

There was a beat, in which his heart stuttered and his face hardened, and her tongue flicked across her lips. She looked towards her mother, smiled again at the Princess.

"Fine, yes. Thank you, Gunther. Sir Gunther. Alright."

He heard their goodbyes dimly, offered his thanks to the Princess for the feast, followed Jane away towards the doors to the grounds as she took her leave. He walked a step behind her, watching her rigid shoulders and her lifted chin, searching for tension in her neck.

She led the way down the steps and into the cool night air. The gardens were lit with lanterns, chasing the darkness away to linger overhead like a spectre. They were alone - the feast was still in full swing, and it was not yet time for the guests to start peeling away from the crowd. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, not turning around, but waiting for him. He reached her slowly, aware of the hesitance between them, aware of his own silence. He felt like he should speak, but he couldn't. She was suddenly foreign to him in every way, as if her new tunic had slipped a mask over her face. He stood beside her, her gaze directed at the ground. She suddenly reached up and tugged at her braid, pulled it loose, clawed her hair free with a sigh. It sprang free like a living creature, and he had a sudden, hard memory of its soft, coarse texture beneath his fingers.

"I'm sorry."

He wondered if he had heard her correctly. She had spoken so quickly, so suddenly, that once silence had returned he was not sure she had done so at all. She lifted her face and he met her eyes once more, for only the second time in weeks, saw her mouth quirk jerkily. She ran a hand through her hair, pulled it out of her face.

"I'm sorry for leaving," she repeated. "I would never have... If there was any way..." She stopped, wet her lips, sighed roughly. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller. "It was horrible. It was the worst thing I have ever done. To leave you like that."

The air was trembling around him. He swallowed hard, trying to remember how to talk, blown away by the sudden, emotional, direct words.

"It was your duty," he managed. "But yes. It was... difficult."

He almost laughed aloud at the inadequacy of his words. He tried again as she stepped forwards, moving slowly along the path that ran through the castle gardens, towards her tower.

"It was selfish of me to ask you to stay," he said, keeping his pace level with hers. "I was... concerned. But I should not have doubted your skills. Here you are, after all."

"Here I am?" she let out a short, humourless laugh. "Only by luck. If I could go back, I would never have... Well, you were perfectly justified, anyway. Had our places been reversed, I doubt I would have taken kindly to the plan either."

He studied her face. She looked tight, sad, almost distressed. He felt his stomach twist slightly and found himself reaching out to stop her, all of his worst fears coming to the forefront of his mind. She glanced back at him, slowing to a halt, her face cast half in shadow. He knew his grip was tight on her wrist, but his fear would not allow him to soften his grip.

"I noticed you were... hurt. Jane, are you... Are you alright?"

Her face seemed to suddenly melt into a warm smile, and he felt his fear fly off him like cobwebs. He let his grip loosen, let their pace resume as she spoke.

"Only bumps and bruises, Gunther. I just mean that I had a close call, and realised that I should have listened to you about bringing back up."

"What happened?"

He doubted she had told this to the court. He had already heard from Sir Ivon, who had in turn been told by Sir Theodore, how she had chased their enemy out into the wilderness and taken them out in small groups, only engaging those who would not run. Dragon had seen the others off beyond the mountains before returning, only a few stragglers surviving the conflict. He knew the grand narrative, but what she was referring to seemed to be a moment of weakness, a possible failure, that she would have hesitated to tell Sir Theodore. Her arm was around her side once more, cradling herself. She shook her head once more, struggling over beginning.

"Towards the end, they grew used to our strategy. They drew us out and ambushed us. When Dragon took off there were arrows being fired, and I dodged them but I fell and... well, I dropped my sword, and I had hurt myself and could not get up..."

Gunther almost did not want her to go on. He could see it already, could hear her screaming in pain as she landed, could see the enemy soldiers closing in around her and lifting their weapons. He sank his teeth into his lip, forcing himself to listen. If they had hurt her, if they had kicked her while she was down... She had taken a breath and was continuing.

"Anyway, a soldier reached me and put his sword against my throat. I had no escape, no weapons, no-one to help. The only reason I still have my head is because one of their horses had spooked and rushed right past us, almost over us, and he flinched and I managed to move." She touched her cheek, indicating the cut. "He missed. And by the time he tried again, Dragon was back."

She smiled grimly, glanced over at him. He took in the scratch on her cheek with new understanding and found that he hated it even more now. It seemed to smirk at him. She had come that close to death, barely escaped by a hair's breadth. The thought chilled him to the bone. She reached for him suddenly, touched his arm, drew his gaze to her eyes rather than her scars.

"You were right, Gunther," she promised lightly, smiling. "And that is the only time I will admit it, so enjoy it while you can."

He managed to snigger a little, felt some of the tension drain from his limbs. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to remind you."

"What of you? You seem much better."

"I am. I hope to join you in the training yard in week or so."

He paused. They had reached the staircase leading to her tower, and she was starting up the stairs. She turned when she noticed he had stopped, raising her eyebrows quizzically. He gestured at the stables.

"Did you want to visit Dragon? I could leave you to your privacy, if you-"

"No, no, he flew back to his cave hours ago," she replied waving away his words.

She continued up the stairs, and he followed cautiously, aware that she had not explicitly asked him to come or to go. He did not want to overstay his welcome, nor did he feel ready to leave her. There still seemed to be a distance between them, a lingering space he had yet to cross. He was taken once more back to the night she had remained beside him in his arms, so close that he could feel her heartbeat against his, and wished once more for that comfortable, uncomplicated contact. There had been no stunted talk then - it had all seemed so simple, so obvious that she should stay with him all night long, as if there were nothing strange or improper about it. Now he felt as if they had stepped back from each other somehow. She pushed open the door to her room and disappeared into it, and he heard the hiss of a match as she went about lighting her candles. He hovered outside for a moment before entering, lingering in the doorway like an unwelcome ghost. She was holding her side, her brow furrowed tightly, her lips in a firm line. Her armour and bag were slung on the floor in one corner; the sheets of her bed were rumpled. A small green toy shaped like a dragon sat on the shelf above the fireplace, where a small flame was still flickering. She raised her head and he pulled his attention away from her belongings, met her sharp, green gaze.

"I think my bandages are too loose."

He ran through the words again in his head. "Your ribs?"

"I hurt some, I think, when I fell. It is not bad but... well." She moved her hand over her side slowly, wincing as it made contact with painful areas. "I think the bandages need to be re-dressed."

"Should I fetch your mother?"

Jane's nose wrinkled almost comically. She hesitated a moment longer, and then cocked her head slightly. "If you like. Unless you wouldn't mind... Of course, if you do not feel comfortable I can call her, but..."

His heart did a strange skip in his chest. He nodded dumbly. "Of course, of course... What should...?"

"There are more bandages over there."

She pointed to a trunk in the corner, already turning away from him and reaching for her tunic. She took it by the ends and began to pull it up over her head, whimpering slightly as she moved, and he hurriedly turned around. His eyes fell on the white linen roles resting on the trunk and he picked them up, fumbling, trying to calm his breathing. When he turned around she had taken off the tunic, still wearing her leggings beneath it. She was unwinding a roll of linen which reached from her waist to her shoulder blades, her back turned to him still. He could make out bruised skin emerging from the fabric on her back - she had fallen hard. Hardly daring to breathe, he stepped towards her. She finished unwinding the bandage and screwed it up in her hands, crossed one arm over her chest. He stopped just behind her, furiously attempting to keep his eyes from straying, breathing in her fiery hair and her smooth, pale back. He could see the reddened, scraped skin on her side where she had hit the ground, could see the angry bruises and the dried blood, and he felt that hot anger in his stomach once more. Someone had fired arrows at her, someone had ripped her from Dragon's back and put a sword to her neck. Her neck which was currently just before his face, smooth skin marked with a faint trail of freckles...

"Gunther?"

"Where should I start?"

He managed to keep his voice level as he spoke, hoping he had covered up his pause. She indicated her stomach and he reached around her to begin. He tried to work quickly, unable to avoid flinching every time she winced. He had once fallen from a horse during training and broken two ribs, and he remembered how much it had hurt. Like fireworks exploding whenever he breathed. How she had managed to keep her composure throughout the evening - how she kept it now - was beyond him. He wound the linen strips as tight as he dared, terrified of causing more damage, her skin quickly disappearing beneath layers of fabric. When he had finished she turned her head, and he found himself inches apart from her. His heart leapt dangerously once more and he froze, felt the whisper of her breath against his cheek.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

He offered her a jerky nod and turned away, carrying the bandages back over to the trunk. He remained there, staring furiously at the stone wall as she moved around the room. She eventually cleared her throat and he faced her slowly, relieved to find that she had pulled on a loose, warm tunic. She sat down carefully on the bed, still holding her side, and he took a step towards the door.

"I should leave you to rest," he said, ashamed of how ridiculously formal he sounded. "I'm sure you're tired."

"I am." She held his gaze, her red hair almost breathing around her, as if it had a life of its own. "Don't go."

He stared at her for a moment longer, as if to give her the opportunity to change her mind. Then, as if imitating her actions on that night, he stepped out of his boots and pulled off his belt and dress sword, laying them on the ground. He crossed to the bed as she indicated and sat down on it, leaning back against the headboard. Like a puzzle piece falling into place, she settled against him on her uninjured side, and his arm was around her shoulders, and it was as if he could finally breathe properly after two weeks of holding his breath. Painted in the warm glow of the fire and the dying candles, they sat together and listened to the distant music from the feast and the mutter of the wind outside. Her hand reached out to rest on his chest, as if claiming him, and he let himself melt into her touch.

"Gunther?" she said after a while, her voice low and tinged with sleep.

"Mm?"

"That night after the battle when... when you almost..."

She trailed off, uncertain. He felt he knew what she was talking about. She could only have meant that time when he had hardly known if he were alive or dead, when his world was defined by scorching heat and rushes of icy coldness and sheer, blinding pain, and reality came in brief flashes like a hallucination. It was not pleasant to remember... aside from the fact that, when he had opened his eyes, she had been there above him, and her green eyes had been swimming with tears and her face had been smudged with dust but she had still been more beautiful than the stars, and her cool touch had been skating over his face, and she had been looking at him as if she would never see him again, as if everything was spilling out of her that she had kept away from him all those years.

"Yes," he said.

"Did you hear me?"

Her hair had been swinging down and had cocooned them in a hazy red sphere, and he had been surrounded by her earthy, dragon smell. "Yes. You asked me not to die."

She made a small noise in the back of her throat, her head resting against his shoulder. "I just wanted to say... thank you. For not dying. Thank you for staying with me."

Filled with an odd sense of confidence, he turned his head and planted a soft kiss against her forehead. "That's what I was going to say," he said.

**The End.**

**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it. See you next time.**

**SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


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